THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


for 


M<o>winnr, 


A  P  P  L  ; 


THE    TWO   APPRENTICES, 


CaU  for  iroutf). 


BY    MARY    HOWITT, 


'  WOBK   AND   WAOM."  BTC  BTC. 


NEW- YORK : 
D.    APPLETON    &    COMPANY, 

443   &    445   BROADWAY. 
M.DCCC.LXI. 


CONTENTS. 


PART  t, 

«mtf.  fjioi 

1.  MAY-FAIR  DAY  AMD  THE  GOOD  Miss  KENDRICKS    .  1 

II.  THE  OSBORNES  AND  THEIR  FAMILY  TROUBLES  .     .  20 

III.  THE  Two  APPRENTICES 38 

IV.  JESSIE'S  ACQUAINTANCE  MADE         .         .         .     .  53 
V.  A  SPOKE  IN  THE  WHEKL          ....  66 

VI.    DEEPER  AND  DEEPER 79 

VII.  THE  BUBBLE  BURST  97 


PART  II. 

I.  OLD  ACQUAINTANCE  AND  NEW      .         .  .     .  109 

II.    A    CoNTRE-TEMPS     .             .             .             .  .             .115 

III.  AGAIN,  OLD  AND  NEW  ACQUAINTANCE   .  .     .  127 

IV.  THEY  ARK  OFF. — THEY  ARE  MARRIED!  .         .  141 
V.  ANOTHER  OLD  ACQUAINTANCE       .        .  .     .  150 

VI.  MADEMOISELLE  ANBBLA                       •  .        •  164 


622760 


THE  TWO  APPRENTICES. 


PART    i. 

CHAPTER   I. 

MAY-FAIR    DAY    AND    THE    GOOD    MISS   KENDRICKS. 

IT  was  in  the  merry  month  of  May,  and  the  sixth 
day  of  the  month ;  the  sun  shone  warm  and  bright, 
and  diffused  a  spirit  of  cheerfulness  over  the  leafy 
woods  and  the  richly  pastoral  country  that  surrounded 
the  pleasant  little  town  of  Uttoxeter,  or  Utceter,  as  it 
was,  for  the  sake  of  euphony,  commonly  called.  The 
cuckoo  had  been  up  shouting  for  hours  in  the  hedge- 
row trees  of  the  little  convenient  crofts,  full  of  grassr 
and  enclosed  with  tall  hawthorn  hedges,  now  in  full 
bloom,  which  environed  the  town  ;  and  the  blackbird, 
and  the  throstle  were  singing  with  all  their  might  in 
the  abundant  gardens,  which  intersected  or  lay  behind1 
almost  every  house  in  the  town.  At  six  o'clock  ia 
the  morning,  all  that  little  town  was  astir,  for  it  was- 
the  morning  of  May-fair — an  important  day,  for 
Utceter  being,  as  it  were,  the  metropolis  of  an  exten- 
sive pastoral  and  farming  district,  its  spring  and" 
autumn  fairs  were  attended  from  both  far  and  wide. 
The  roads  leading  to  it  from  all  directions  had,  the 
preceding  day,  been  filled  with  herds  of  cattle  and 


2  MAY-FAIR   DAY     AND 

droves  of  sheep,  and  long  trains  of  horses.  Yellow 
and  green  .caravans,  containing  wild  beasts  and  jug- 
glers, and  fire-eaters,  had  driven  through  the  neigh- 
bowing  villages,  giving  to  their  inhabitants  a 
foreknowledge  of  some  of  the  wonders  and  attractions 
of  v.hc  Fair.  In  the  market-place  of  the  town  itself, 
all  had  been  stir  and  bustle  for  four-and-twenty 
hours  at  least,  and  the  inhabitants  of  the  market- 
place shops  declared  it  to  be  their  opinion,  that  the 
people,  with  their  booths,  and  stalls,  and  caravans, 
had  been  up  and  busy  the  livelortg  night.  And  it  did 
look  like  it;  for  when,  on  that  morning,  they  ven- 
tured their  night-capped  head's  between  their  window- 
curtains  for  a  peep,  the  whole  open  space  was  full  of 
booths  and  stalls ;  and  here  was  to  be  seen  the  tall 
sign-post  of  "  Thomas  Rigley,  licensed  dealer  in  stays, 
from  Whitechapel,  London;"  and  here, "  James  Ford, 
•cutler,  from  Sheffield;"  there,  "  Morgan  O'Grady, 
the  celebrated  worm-doctor ;  "  and  beyond,  "  Jonas 
Solem,  shoemaker,  from  Stafford,"  close  by  the  side 
of  "  Aaron  Tagg  and  Son,  earthenware  dealers,  from 
Lane- Del f,  in  the  Staffordshire  Potteries:"  whilst 
behind  all  these,  like  a  great  yellow  wall,  on  which 
the  morning  sun  shone  dazzlingly,  rose  the  four  great 
caravans  of  "  Roarem's  Menagerie,"  flanked,  on  one 
hand,  by  the  blue  caravan  of  the  Fire-Eater,  and  on 
the  other,  by  the  red-fronted  tenement  of  the  travel- 
ling theatre.  It  was  the  beginning  of  a  gay  day — quite 
a  fete-day — and  all  looked  so  busy  and  wide  awake, 
that  the  night-capped  heads  were  popped  back  again, 
with  the  uncomfortable  sense  that  they  must  have  over- 
slept themselves,  till  a  glance  at  watch  or  time-piece, 
or  else  the  sweet  chimes  of  the  church  clock,  told  then 
it  was  only  just  six,  and  there  was  no  reason  to  hurry, 


THE   GOOD   MISS  KENDRICKS.  3 

The  cuckoo  shouted  from  the  elm-trees,  and  the 
blackbirds  sang  in  the  pear-tree  boughs ;  and  the  sun 
shone,  and  the  bells  began  to  ring ;  and  the  public- 
houses  began  to  fill  with  farmers,  clamouring  for  theii 
breakfasts ;  and  the  inhabitants  of  the  streets  in  which 
the  cattle  and  horse-fairs  were  held,  left  their  lower 
window-shutters  closed  ;  and  jockeys  began  to  crack 
off  their  steeds,  and  farmers  began  to  handle  prime 
stock,  and  the  Fair  was  in  active  operation.  The 
morning  went  on ;  the  jockey's  business  slackened ; 
the  fat  stock  and  the  lean  stock  had  found  pur- 
chasers ;  and  the  more  vulgar  part  of  the  business 
drew  to  an  end.  In  the  meantime,  the  booths  and 
the  stalls  had  arranged  their  wares.  Thomas  lligley, 
staymaker,  of  Whitechapel,  hung  out  his  "  corsets," 
in  opposition  to  Stephen  Udal,  the  old  accredited 
stay  maker  of  the  town,  and  laughed  in  his  sleeve  at 
the  old-fashioned  cut  of  things  which  had  been  made 
out  of  London.  James  Ford,  the  Sheffield  cutler, 
displayed  his  knives  and  razors  in  shining  order ; 
while  Moses  Birch,  the  town-cutler,  assured  the  world 
around  him,  in  a  loud  voice,  that  his  wares  were  made 
to  cut,  and  not,  like  some  other  folk's,  only  to  sell. 
Morgan  O'Grady  exhibited  horrid  things  in  spirits, 
and  counselled  all  loving  parents,  in  his  little  printed 
papers,  which  flew  about  like  leaves  in  autumn,  to 
purchase  for  their  children  a  pennyworth  of  his 
famous  worm- gingerbread ;  and  never  since  people 
trod  upon  soling  leather,  had  been  seen  such  tempting 
rows  of  shoes  as  those  of  Jonas  Solem  and  the  seven 
shoemakers  of  the  town,  who  now,  for  the  first  time 
in  their  lives,  agreed  all  together  in  the  declaration, 
that  if  people  wanted  to  buy  shoes  no  better  than  if 
made  of  paper,  they  must  buy  them  from  the  Stafford 


4  MAY-FAIR   DAY    ANE 

makers.  The  booths  of  toys  were  aiready  thronged 
with  children,  who,  however,  as  yet,  speculated  rather 
on  what  they  should  buy,  than  actually  bought. 
Farmers'  wives  were  buying  cheese-colouring,  and 
new  milking-pails  and  butter- prints;  and  getting  their 
business  all  done  before  dinner,  that  they  and  their 
daughters  might  in  the  afternoon  have  "  a  bit  of  time" 
for  amusement.  The  bells  rang  on  more  merrily 
than  ever;  the  streets,  where  the  horse  and  cattle- 
fairs  had  been  held,  were  now  all  in  progress  of  being 
swept  and  cleaned ;  and  now  the  roads  and  the  town- 
ends  were  all  thronged  again  with  cattle  going  out, 
and  country  people — lads  and  lasses,  and  mothers  and 
children,  and  old  grandfathers  and  grandmothers— 
coming  in,  for  the  afternoon's  fun  and  merriment. 
The  fuur  big  men,  in  beef-eater  costume,  outside  the 
wild-beast  show;  blew  their  trumpets,  and  the  lion 
within  roared  from  time  to  time ;  the  fire-eater's  per 
formances  began ;  and  the  red  front  of  the  travelling 
theatre  had  been  removed,  and  there  was  now  seen  an 
open  stage  in  front  of  a  canvas  screen,  and  gaily 
attired  nymphs,  who  looked  to  vulgar  eyes  as  if  stars 
of  gold  and  silver  had  been  showered  upon  them, 
walked  arm-in-arm,  to  and  fro,  attracting  the  admi- 
ration of  village  swains  and  big  boys,  who  flocked 
thither  in  crowds;  whilst  dashing,  bandit-looking 
men,  in  cloaks  and  plumed  hats,  cast  half-gallant, 
half-ferocious  glances,  upon  the  village  maidens,  and 
thus  excited  in  them  the  most  charming,  romantic 
terror,  which  could  only  be  allayed  by  their  going 
up,  and  seeing  all  the  wonders  of  that  enchanted 
world  which  lay  behind  the  canvas,  and  of  which 
these  beings  were  the  inhabitants. 
It  was  now  noon,  and  the  public-houses  were  full 


THE  'GOOD  MISS  KENDRICKS.  5 

of  dinners  and  dinner-eating  guests,  who  did  not 
notice,  as  those  did  who  were  just  coming  into  the 
fair,  how  clouds  had  gathered  from  the  south-west, 
and  threatened  rain ;  a  gusty  wind,  too,  had  arisen, 
and  whirled  the  dust  along  the  roads,  and  made  a 
strange  commotion  among  the  booths  and  stalls  in 
the  market-place.  It  grew  cold  and  dull ;  and  then, 
just  when  dinner  was  over,  and  everybody  was  in  the 
fair,  and  wanted  to  enjoy  themselves,  it  really  began 
to  rain,  and  to  rain  in  good  earnest  It  was  no 
shower ;  there  was  no  prospect  of  its  soon  being  over; 
the  sky  was  all  one  sullen  mass  of  smoke-coloured 
cloud;  and  down,  down,  down  came  the  soaking 
rain.  The  kennels  soon  ran  over;  and  the  badly- 
paved  market-place  was  full  of  puddles,  into  which 
people  unwittingly  stepped,  ankle-deep.  It  really 
was  quite  a  melancholy  thing  to  hear  then  the  screech 
of  a  tin  penny-trumpet,  or  the  bark  of  a  woolly  dog 
in  a  little  child's  hand,  as  it  stood,  sheltering,  with  its 
mother,  in  a  crowd  of  people,  under  an  entry,  yet 
never  wondering,  dear  little  soul,  as  they  did,  how  in 
the  world  it  was  ever  to  get  home.  People  had  not 
brought  umbrellas  with  them;  and  it  was  quite 
pitiable  for  anybody,  but  those  who  sold  ribbons,  to 
see  smart  girls  walking  along  with  pocket-hand- 
kerchiefs over  their  bonnets,  quite  wet  through,  and 
which  now  were  all  stained  with  the  mingling  and 
dripping  dyes  of  their  so  lately  blushing  or  verdant 
honours.  People  crowded  into  booths  or  under  stalls 
— not  to  make  purchases,  but  to  find  shelter ;  and 
went  by  throngs  into  the  wild-beast  show  and  the 
theatre,  not  so  much  to  be  entertained,  as  to  get  out 
of  the  rain  ;  and  all  the  time  could  think  of  nothing 
but  how  wet  they  were,  and  wonder  how,  if  it 


6  MAY-FAIR  DAY   AIO> 

kept  on  raining,  they  were  ever  to  get  home  that 
night. 

At  four  o'clock,  at  five  o'clock,  at  six  o'clock,  it 
rained  just  as  hard  as  ever,  and  seemed  as  if  it  would 
rain  all  night ;  and  the  public-houses  were  brimful : 
in  kitchea  and  parlour,  and  bed-room,  and  everywhere, 
there  was  a  smell  of  wet  clothes  and  tobacco  smoke, 
and  ale,  and  gin-and- water.  What  was  to  be  done  ? 
What  indeed  was  to  be  done  ?  For  at  that,  very  time, 
there  came,  slowly  and  heavily  advancing  into  the 
town,  one  after  another,  hi  long  and  weary  line,  seven 
heavy  baggage  wagons  belonging  to  a  regiment  which 
had  marched  shortly  before  through  the  town,  on  its 
way  to  Ireland.  Wearily  went  onward  the  wagons 
along  the  wet,  grinding  street,  piled  up,  as  high  as 
the  houses,  with  baggage,  and  soldiers'  wives  and 
children.  .  The  drivers  were  wet;  the  horses  were 
wet ;  the  soldiers  who  attended  the  train  were  wet ; 
and  so  were  the  wives  and  children,  who,  wrapped  in 
gray  woollen  cloaks  and  coats,  sat  up  aloft  among  the 
baggage :  the  rain  lay  in  large  pools  in  the  hollows  ot 
the  tarpauling,  and  rocked  about,  and  spilled  over,  as 
the  wagons  went  along  unsteadily  up  the  ill-paved 
street ;  and  altogether,  the  whole  train  presented  a 
most  comfortless  and  weary  appearance.  On,  however, 
it  went,  wagon  after  wagon ;  and  cheerful  families, 
sitting  at  home  by  their  warm  firesides,  were  filled  with 
a  kindly  compassion  for  the  poor  strangers,  who  had 
arrived  thus  disconsolately  and  thus  inopportunely. 

There  was  no  room  in  the  market-place  for  the 
unloading  of  the  luggage;  so  the  wagons,  having 
made  the  circuit  of  the  town,  came  at  length  to  a 
stand  in  the  widest  part  of  the  v/idest  street,  and 
began  slowly  to  unload. 


THE    GOOD    BUSS   KENDRICKS.  7 

Just  opposite  to  where  they  halted,  stood,  with  its 
large  awkward  porch  in  front,  and  its  large,  pleasant 
garden  behind,  the  little,  low,  old-fashioned  house, 
inhabited  by  the  Miss  Kendricks,  Joanna  and  Dorothy. 
Their  parlour  lay  a  step  below  the  street,  and  its 
window  was  almost  on  a  level  with  it ;  and,  but  that 
the  pavement  was  always  kept  so  nicely  clean  before 
it,  must  have  been  sadly  splashed  with  the  rain  that 
poured  down  from  the  clouds,  and  dripped  from  the 
eaves  above.  The  Miss  Kendricks  were,  if  not  among 
the  richest,  among  the  most  respectable  inhabitants 
of  the  town.  Their  father,  in  their  early  youth,  had 
been  the  well-beloved  curate  of  the  parish — a  man 
BO 'pure  and  good,  and  one  who  so  nobly  and  beauti- 
fully performed  all  his  duties,  great  and  small,  that 
God,  to  reward  him  best,  took  him  home  to  himself. 
His  wife,  heart-broken  for  his  loss,  followed  him 
within  twelve  months;  and  left  four  children,  Rebecca, 
Joanna,  Leonard,  and  Dorothy,  to  the  care  of  their 
great-uncle,  a  small  shopkeeper  of  the  place.  The 
uncle  was  even  then  an  old  man — perhaps  God  spared 
his  life  for  the  sake  of  the  orphans ;  and  why  not, 
when  he  cares  even  for  the  sparrows  ?  He  himself 
believed  it  was  so ;  and  he  lived  on,  not  only  to  care 
for  the  orphans,  but  to  become  of  no  little  consequence 
in  the  place,  from  being  for  so  long  a  time  "  the  oldest 
inhabitant " — a  sort  of  living  chronicle  of  events ;  a 
referee  on  all  difficult  or  disputed  questions  of  right 
or  usage.  Alas !  poor  old  man,  however,  all  did  not 
go  on  so  well  and  smoothly  as  he  hoped  and  prayed 
for :  Rebecca,  the  eldest  of  the  orphans,  grew  up 
somewhat  wild  and  wilful,  and  married  sorely  against 
his  will.  It  was  a  marriage  of  unhappiness  and 
poverty :  she  and  her  husband  removed  to  a  remote 


O  JIAY-FAIR   DAY    AND 

part  of  England,  and  vanished,  as  it  were,  entirely 
from  the  knowledge  of  the  family.  The  others,  on  the 
contrary,  grew  up  into  the  most  steady  and  promising 
manhood  and  womanhood.  The  girls  he  had  educated 
simply,  as,  according  to  his  notions,  might  best  fit 
them  for  tradesmen's  wives ;  but  to  the  brother"  he 
gave  the  education  of  a  gentleman  and  a  scholar,  and 
lived  carefully,  and  almost  parsimoniously  himself,  to 
maintain  him  respectably  at  Oxford.  As  regarded 
him,  his  wishes  were  all  fulfilled  ;  and  on  the  evening 
of  the  day  on  which  the  news  came  that  Leonard  had 
received  the  degree  of  Bachelor  of  Arts,  he  died,  as 
he  sat  quietly  in  his  chair.  The  business  of  his  life 
was  done ;  and  at  the  advanced  age  of  ninety-five  he 
was  borne  to  his  grave,  honoured  by  the  whole  town. 
He  left  his  house,  and  property  to  the  amount  of  a 
hundred  a-year,  to  his  nieces  and  their  brother ;  the 
house  for  them  to  live  in  as  long  as  they  needed  such 
a  home,  and  the  money  to  his  nephew,  subject  to  a 
payment  of  thirty  pounds  a  year  to  each  sister.  Miss 
Joanna  was  seven-and-twenty  at  the  death  of  her 
uncle  —  a  plain,  old-fashioned  little  woman,  who 
looked  six  or  seven  years  older  than  she  was ;  whilst 
Dorothy,  on  the  contrary,  looked  younger,  and  though 
four-and-twenty,  had  all  the  bloom  and  liveliness  of 
eighteen.  Prepossessing,  however,  as  was  Dorothy, 
she,  at  the  time  of  her  uncle's  death,  had  no  accepted 
lover ;  whilst  Joanna  had  been  engaged  to  a  stationer 
and  printer  of  Lichfield,  of  the  name  of  Allen,  for  a 
couple  of  years,  and  had  only  deferred  her  marriage 
from  reluctance  to  leave  her  old  relative  in  the  then 
declining  state  of  his  health. 

In  such  a  little  town  as  Utceter,  everybody  knew 
everybody's  affairs ;  and  therefore,  no  sooner  was  th« 


THE    GOOD    MISS    KENDRICKS.  9 

old  gentleman  dead,  than  all  said,  that  for  a  certainty 
Miss  Kendrick  would  many,  more  especially  as 
Leonard,  who  was  now  ordained,  had  the  offer  of  a 
curacy  in  Derbyshire,  and  nothing  seemed  more 
natural  than  that  the  lively  Dorothy  should  keep  his 
house.  Thus  the  world  laid  out  things  for  them  j 
and  thus  also,  in  the  quiet  of  their  little  back  parlour, 
they  laid  out  things  for  themselves.  The  great-uncle, 
as  we  said  before,  was  a  small  shopkeeper.  He  sold 
stamps  and  stationery,  and  small  cutlery  ware,  and 
tea  in  sealed -up  packets,  as  it  came  from  the  India 
House :  he  had,  altogether,  a  nice  little  ready-money 
business,  which  amply  supplied  every  passing  week 
with  cash  for  its  current  expenses,  and  some  little 
besides ;  and  it  was  no  wonder,  therefore,  that  after 
his  death,  several  tradesmen  of  the  place  wished  to 
purchase  the  business  at  a  good  premium. 

It  is  an  old  and  true  saying,  that  "  man  proposes, 
and  God  disposes;"  and  it  was  so  in  this  case. 
Leonard  went  to  his  curacy,  whence  he  wrote  the 
most  affectionate  and  charming  letters,  full  of  the 
most  fervent  desires  to  do  good  in  his  parish,  and  to 
promote  the  happiness  of  his  sisters.  Joanna  thought 
of,  and  made  preparations  for  her  marriage,  which 
was  to  take  place  as  soon  as  the  time  of  full  mourning 
for  the  old  gentleman  had  expired ;  and  in  the  mean- 
time she  kept  on  the  business,  prudently  anxious  to 
spare  all,  and  save  all,  against  the  breaking  up  of  the 
family.  The  weeks  and  months  went  on,  and  Doro- 
thy, in  the  summer,  paid  a  visit  to  her  brother — a 
golden  time  to  her,  and  an  earnest,  as  she  believed  it, 
of  the  life  which  lay  before  her.  It  was  a  quiet, 
out-of-the-world,  Peak  village,  where  her  brother 
lived ;  beautiful  in  its  locality,  and  inhabited  by  people 


10  HAY-FAIR   DAT   AND 

as  kind  and  simple-hearted  as  soul  could  wish,  who 
received  her  among  them  as  if  she  had  been  an  angel 
from  heaven ;  whilst  the  few  families  there,  of  higher 
rank  and  intelligence,  seemed  at  once  to  open  theit1 
hearts  and  homes  to  her. 

"  How  well  you  look,  Dorothy  ! "  said  Joanna  to 
her,  on  her  return :  "  the  Peak  air  agrees  with  you. 
Your  eyes  look  brighter,  and  your  colour  clearer  than 
ever ! " 

Dorothy  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass,  and  she 
thought  so  too.  Poor  Dorothy !  that  was  the  last  time 
she  ever  saw  herself.  The  next  day  she  felt  unwell 
with  headache  and  fever ;  she  grew  worse  and  worse ; 
a  medical  man  was  called  in,  and  in  a  day  or  two 
pronounced  her  to  be  ill  of  small-pox.  "VVe  shall  not 
go  through  that  long  and  severe  illness.  Dorothy  lay 
at  the  point  of  death ;  and  her  brother  and  sister, 
unable  to  resign  her  into  the  hands  of  her  Maker, 
prayed  that,  at  any  cost,  her  life  might  be  spared. 
Their  prayers  were  heard.  She  lived  ;  but  not  alone 
at  the  expense  of  her  beauty ;  she  lost,  what  was  far 
more,  her  eyesight.  Well,  indeed,  may  we  say,  poor 
Dorothy !  Life  had  now  hard  lessons  for  her — patience 
and  submission.  For  herself,  could  she  have  chosen, 
she  would  rather  have  died  than  lived.  She  had  just, 
as  it  were,  become  conscious  of  the  worth  of  her 
beauty  and  of  herself;  and  now  she  was  a  poor,  blind 
ruin — a  spectacle  to  be  shunned  and  pitied. 

"  Come  again  to  me,"  wrote  Leonard ;  "  the  Peak 
air  will  do  you  good  :  the  people  here  all  love  you, 
and  will  be  kinder  to  you  than  ever." 

"  I  will  not  go  there,  of  all  places  in  the  world,** 
said  Dorothy,  with  bitterness ;  "  I  will  not  go  there 
to  bo  a  burden  to  him,  and  a  spectacle  to  the  whole 


THE  GOOD   MISS   KKNDRICKS.  11 

parish !  Life  has  become  hateful  to  me — would  to 
God  that  I  had  died,  or  might  die  ere  long ! " 

Joanna  had  the  patience  of  an  angel,  and  answered 
her  sister's  repinings  with  loving  and  gentle  words. 
Winter  came  on ;  and  then  spring;  and  again  the  idea 
was  revived  of  Dorothy's  going  to  Leonard,  for  change 
of  air ;  whilst  Joanna,  whose  lover  was  impatient  for 
his  marriage,  made  her  preparations  for  this  event. 
But  to  this  proposal  the  poor  invalid  would  not  listen. 
She  entertained  the  most  fixed,  and  as  it  seemed  ob- 
stinate, determination  not  to  visit  her  brother;  nor 
would  she  assign  any  reason  for  so  doing.  Everybody 
but  Joanna  lost  patience  with  her;  but  she,  never. 
"  She  will  become  accustomed  in  time  to  her  mis'for- 
tune,"  said  she  to  her  friends,  and,  above  all,  to  the 
mother  and  sister  of  her  affianced  lover ;  "  and  in 
the  meantime,  we  must  have  patience  with  her,  as 
with  a  sick  child.  She  is  now,"  said  she,  "  suffering 
from  a  mind  diseased,  which  is  worse  than  sickness  of 
the  body.  Let  us  only  have  patience  with  her ; "  and 
from  month  to  month  Joanna  delayed  her  marriage, 
that  she  should  not  at  least  take  so  sad  an  invalid 
into  the  house  of  her  husband.  Day  after  day  came 
his  mother  and  sister,  sometimes  together,  and  some- 
times alone,  who  lost  no  opportunity  of  dropping 
hints  to  poor  Dorothy  on  the  Christian  duty  of  sub- 
mission to  our  afflictions,  and  renunciation  of  our  own 
wills. 

"  Go,  and  take  a  walk,  and  get  a  mouthful  of  fresh 
air,  for  you  look  as  pale  as  a  ghost,  with  all  this 
watching  and  anxiety,  night  and  day,"  said  they  con- 
tinually to  Joanna,  in  the  hearing  of  her  sister;  "and 
we  will  mind  the  shop,  and  talk  to  Dorothy,  while 
you  are  gone." 


32  MAY-FAIR  DAT    AND 

For  awhile  Joanna  obeyed,  but  presently  she  began 
to  perceive  that  the  unhappy  and  distressful  state  of 
her  sister's  mind  was  aggravated  by  these  interviews. 
Dorothy  was  no  longer  open  towards  her ;  there  was 
a  coldness  and  a  reserve  which  she  could  not  pene- 
trate, which  only  increased  her  silence.  Light, 
however,  broke  in,  when  the  mother  and  sister, 
having,  as  they  thought,  discharged  their  duty  to 
Dorothy,  began  to  speak  plainly  to  Joanna — she  was 
not  doing  her  duty  either  to  her  sister  or  herself,  thus 
humouring  her  like  a  child ;  a  degree  of  firmness,  and 
even  seventy,  was  requisite.  Dorothy  must  learn  to 
submit ;  and  when  it  pleases  God  to  afflict  us,  said 
they,  we  must  not  stand  in  the  way  of  other  people's 
happiness  with  our  whims  and  fancies.  Leonard  was 
willing  to  have  Dorothy,  and  to  him  she  ought  to  go  ; 
a  quiet  country  place  would  furnish  her  with  the  best 
home  :  Leonard  had  said  that  he  would  have  a  girl 
to  wait  upon  her;  what  did  she  want  more?  and 
then  Joanna  must  remember  that  she  was  not  using 
Allen  well ;  he  had  had  his  house  ready  these  two 
months,  and  how  long  did  sho  mean  to  keep  him 
waiting?  If  Allen  had  not  told  her  himself,  they 
would  do  so,  that  he  was  tired  of  all  this  waiting  and 
•waiting,  and  he  had  no  notion  of  anything  but 
Dorothy's  going  at  once  to  her  brother's,  and  submit- 
ting to  her  afflictions  as  any  good  Christian  ought  to 
do ;  and  as  Leonard,  who  was  so  good  a  man  and 
preacher,  would  soon  teach  her,  &c.,  &c.,  &c. ! 

Joanna  said  but  little  in  reply,  but  sent  over  to 
Lichfield,  to  request  an  interview  with  her  lover. 
He  came  ;  and,  as  plain  speaking  had  begun,  it  was 
soon  evident  that  he  held  the  same  opinions  as  his 
family — perhaps,  indeed,  that  they  had  been  employed 


THE   GOOD    MISS    KENDRICKS.  13 

to  speak  for  him.  Joanna  said,  considering  the 
reluctance  which  her  sister  had  shown  to  visiting  her 
brother,  she  had  entirely  given  up  the  thoughts  of 
her  ever  residing  with  him  ;  and  that,  in  fact,  wher- 
ever her  home  was,  there  also  would  be  Dorothy's, 
Allen  was  silent.  Joanna's  spirit  was  roused ;  did  he 
then  not  wish  her  sister  to  live  with  them  ?  He 
hummed  and  hawed,  as  people  do  who  are  ashamed  of 
speaking  out  their  real  minds.  She  then  said,  that 
he  was  free  to  choose  another  wife ;  for  without 
she  had  his  most  full  and  free  consent  to  Dorothy 
living  with  them,  and  to  her  own  share  of  whatever 
the  sale  of  the  business  might  produce  being  settled 
upon  her,  she  would  never  become  his  wife. 

Whether  Allen  looked  for  some  such  consumma- 
tion as  this ;  or  whether  he  wished  it — whether  he 
was  tired  of  his  old  love,  and  wished  to  be  on  with  a 
new — is  not  for  us  to  say ;  but  on  hearing  these  words, 
lie  quietly  rose  up  from  his  chair,  and  in  a  tone  rather 
of  ill-humour  than  grief,  said,  "Very  well;  then  I 
suppose  there  will  be  an  end  of  the  matter." 

"  I  suppose  there  will,"  said  Joanna,  without  the 
least  agitation. 

"If you  alter  your  mind  before  night,"said  he,  "you 
can  let  me  know;  I  will  stay  so  long  at  my  mother's." 

"  I  shall  not  alter  my  mind,"  said  Joanna ;  "  and 
I  thank  God  that  I  have  found  you  out  before  it  was 
too  late." 

Nothing  more  was  said ;  Allen  took  his  hat,  and 
left  the  house ;  and  Joanna  did  not  alter  her  mind. 
The  next  day  the  mother  and  sister  came,  and  were 
a  deal  more  vehement  on  the  subject  than  Allen  had 
been  ;  they  upbraided  her  and  scolded  her  no  little, 
and  had  no  mercy  on  the  poor  blind  Dorothy,  who, 


14  MAY-FAIR   DAY    AND 

however,  did  not  hear  what  was  said.  It  was  a  long, 
sturmy  day ;  but,  like  all  other  days,  it  came  to  an  end; 
and  Joanna,  who  in  the  course  of  it  said  that  Allen 
had  not  in  truth  shown  much  real  love  for  her,  and 
could  soon  find  another  wife  for  his  new  house  and 
furniture,  was  right ;  for,  within  a  month  of  that  Jay, 
he  married  a  young  lady  of  Lichfield ;  and  this,  his 
mother  and  sister  took  care  to  say,  was  the  best  day's 
work  he  ever  did. 

All  this  seemed  easy  enough  for  Allen ;  he  suffered, 
apparently,  nothing.  Joanna,  on  the  contrary,  suf- 
fered much ;  she  had  loved  sincerely  and  with  her 
whole  soul,  and  she  threw  herself  now  on  the  kind 
affections,  and  loving,  though  clouded  heart  of  poor 
Dorothy  for  consolation.  Nor  was  she  deceived. 
Dorothy  roused  herself  from  her  lethargy,  and  forgot 
her  own  sorrows  in  alleviating  those  of  her  sister. 
This  was  the  really  cementing  bond  between  them. 
Each  bore  the  other's  burden,  and  felt  how  good 
sympathy  was  for  a  wounded  heart.  The  reserve  on 
the  part  of  Dorothy  gradually  gave  place  to  confidence 
and  epenness,  and,  in  proportion  as  she  came  to  speak 
of  her  morbid  unhappiness,  it  left  her.  One  of  her 
greatest  trials  was  to  allow  herself  to  be  seen ;  and, 
for  this  reason,  she  <;ould  not  be  induced  to  go  out. 
It  was  quite  natural,  perhaps,  for  she  had  been 
reckoned  very  pretty,  and  had  been  greatly  admired 
by  all  the  young  men  of  the  neighbourhood ;  and  now, 
though  she  could  not  see  her  face,  she  knew  that  she 
had  become  very  plain.  Great,  therefore,  was  the 
good  Joanna's  delight,  when  one  fine  evening  she 
•aid,  suddenly, 

"  Tie  that  thick  veil  of  which  you  have  spoken  on 
mv  bonnet,  Joanna,  and  take  me  to  Bramshall  Wood. 


THE   GOOD    MISS  KENDRICKS.  15 

I  long  to  hear  the  gurgling  of  the  little  brook  there, 
and  to  smell  the  cowslips  :  you  will  gather  me  some, 
and  I  know  how  they  look." 

Joanna  could  have  cried  for  joy  to  hear  her  sister 
speak  thus,  and  went  with  her  to  the  wood.  They 
eat  down  by  the  side  of  the  little  stream,  the  brightest 
and  clearest  of  little  woodland  streams,  and  listened 
to  the  songs  of  the  birds;  and  Joanna  gathered 
flowers,  which  she  placed  in  the  hands  of  her  poor 
blind  sister. 

"  You  have  often  thought  me  selfish  and  unrea- 
sonable," said  Dorothy,  at  length ;  "  I  know  you  have, 
and  so  did  Mr.  Allen  and  Martha.  I  know  I  have 
not  been  submissive,"  said  she,  preventing  her  sister's 
interruption,  "  and  let  me  speak,  Joanna,  now,  for  I 
feel  as  if  I  could  open  my  heart  to  you,  and  it  will  re- 
lieve me  of  a  great  burden;  for,  though  I  have  told  you 
many  things,  I  have  not  told  you  all,  and  to-night  I 
feel  as  if  I  could."  Joanna  put  her  arm  round  her 
sister's  waist,  and  Dorothy  continued  :— 

"  I  was  very  happy,  formerly,  very  happy  indeed ; 
I  wanted  nothing  that  I  did  not  possess;  I  had  no 
wish  beyond  my  own  sphere,  and  in  that  sphere  I 
possessed  all  that  I  desired,  my  uncle's  love  and 
yours.  I  was  happy,  too,  in  the  consciousness  of 
being  good-looking;  I  felt  that  I  had  the  power  of 
pleasing ;  looks  of  admiration  met  me  and  followed 
me,  and  I  was  happy  that  it  was  so.  Perhaps  I 
was  vain.  At  that  time,  however,  I  should  have 
denied  it,  but  now  I  think  that  perhaps  I  was  so, 
and  God  saw  right  to  punish  me ;  and  oh,  Joanna, 
what  a  heavy  punishment  for  so  light  an  offence ! " 

"  God  is  good,"  said  Joanna,  with  emotion,  "  and 
his  chastenings  are  only  in  love ! " 


J6  MAY-FAIR   DAY   AND 

u  I  believe  it,"  returned  Dorothy,  "  and  I  will  not 
repine ;  nor  is  it  for  this  that  I  came  here  to-night.  I 
came  here  to  ask  your  forgiveness  for  many  faults,  for 
much  impatience,  for  much  obstinacy,  and  perhaps  in 
part  to  explain  what  has  not  been  clear  in  me,  espe- 
cially as  regards  my  unwillingness  to  visit  Leonard. 
Ah,  you  will  then  see,  Joanna,  what  reason  I  have 
to  sympathise  with  you,  for  I  have  suffered  like  you  ! 
1  was  very  happy  whilst  I  was  with  Leonard :  you 
know  it ;  but  neither  he  nor  you  know  what  it  was 
that  really  constituted  my  happiness,  and  then  made 
the  bitterness  of  my  misery.  I  loved — loved  deeply 
and  truly.  Nay,  do  not  start,  Joanna — the  joy  and 
the  misery  are  both  past.  I  have  resigned  the  dearest 
hopes  of  my  soul  at  God's  requiring,  and  the  time  of 
peace  is  now  come  !  " 

Dorothy  was  silent  a  few  moments,  and  Joanna 
wiped  away  both  her  own  tears  and  those  which 
flowed  from  the  darkened  eyes  of  her  sister. 

"  You  have  heard  of  Henry  Ashdown,  the  squire's 
nephew.  Leonard  mentioned  him  in  his  letters — in 
the  first  letter,  I  remember,  that  ever  he  sent  to  us 
from  Winston.  He  was  a  gay,  but  good-hearted 
young  man,  Leonard  said.  On  the  very  day  of  my 
arrival  at  Winston,  Leonard  told  me  that  Mrs.  Ash- 
down,  Henry's  mother,  who  had  been  for  many  years 
a  sad  invalid,  was  then  at  the  Hall,  for  her  health ; 
that,  for  her  piety  and  many  remarkable  virtues,  he 
had  become  much  attached  to  her ;  and  that  it  was 
his  wish  that  I  should  contribute  as  much  as  possible 
to  her  comfort  and  amusement.  I  went  often  to  see 
her,  and  thus  Henry  and  I  met.  I  loved  the  mother ; 
but  ah,  I  loved  also  the  son.  The  mother  made  me 
the  minister  of  her  mercies  to  the  poor,  for  she  wa» 


THE   GOOD    MISS   KENDRICKS.  1? 

the  most  charitable  of  women ;  and  whilst  Leonard 
read  to  her  in  pious  books,  I  went  on  her  errands  of 
benevolence :  but  1  never  went  alone.  Leonard  is 
simple-hearted  and  unsuspecting  as  a  child,  and  never 
Bcemed  to  notice  the  intimacy  between  Henry  and 
me.  I  was  happy — oh,  how  happy ! — in  my  love  ; 
and,  though  Henry  never  formally  avowed  his  passion 
for  me,  his  looks  and  actions  bespoke  it  as  plainly  as 
words.  His  uncle  wished  him  to  marry  the  daughter 
of  a  rich  neighbouring  squire :  his  mother  also 
acquiesced  in  it ;  for,  as  he  was  his  uncle's  heir,  she 
consulted  his  wishes  in  all  things.  He  himself,  how- 
ever, did  not  second  their  plans — at  least,  lie  told  me 
so ;  adding,  that  he  meant  to  marry  to  please  only 
himself,  and  would  give  his  hand  where  he  had 
already  given  his  heart.  I  left  Winston,  to  return, 
as  I  fondly  hoped,  in  a  fcw  mouths ;  and  ah,  how 
impatiently  did  I  look  forward  to  that  time !  Heaven 
forgive  me,  if  in  it  I  forgot  everything.  All  that 
followed  you  know Henry  Ashdown  never  in- 
quired after  me ;  how  was  it  likely  that  he  would 
marry  me,  disfigured  and  blind?  Oh,  Almighty 
God,  why  was  I  spared  to  become  the  poor  object 
that  I  am  !  " 

Again  Dorothy  paused,  and  again  the  two  sisters 
mingled  their  tears.  "  Yes,  I  know  what  followed," 
said  Joanna,  at  length. 

"  Leonard's  letters,"  continued  Dorothy,  "  told  of 
Henry's  marriage  and  residence  at  the  Hall.  How 
could  I  then  go  to  Winston  ? — how  could  I,  blind 
though  I  am,  sit  in  the  same  church  with  Henry  and 
his  bride?  Oh,  Joanna,  what  wonder  then  was  it, 
when  your  sorrows  came,  that  I  could  enter  into 
your  heart,  and  sympathise  so  deeply  with  you  I 


18  MAY-FAIR    DAY    AND 

Hence  is  it  that  sorrow  is  so  universal,  that  we  may 
have  mercy  and  compassion  on  one  another ! " 

Joanna  drew  her  sister  yet  more  closely  to  hei-,  and 
laid  her  head  upon  her  bosom,  and  kissed  her  blind 
eyes,  and  felt  that  she  had  never  loved  her  so  tenderly 
as  then. 

The  little  shop  was  continued  as  in  the  time  of  the 
old  uncle,  and  thus  furnished  constant  occupation  for 
Joanna ;  but  while  yet  there  lay  upon  poor  Dorothy 
the  languor  of  enfeebled  health  and  of  a  cruelly  dis- 
appointed heart,  the  hand  of  God,  which  chastens 
only  in  love,  sent  a  new  sorrow  to  bind  her  heart,  as 
it  were,  all  the  more  to  Him.  Leonard  wrote  thus 
to  his  sisters : — 

"  I  am  at  length  compelled  to  deal  frankly  with 
you.  I  am  not  well.  I  have  felt  very  weak  and 
poorly  since  the  winter,  when  I  suffered  much  from 
cold.  I  have  latterly  been  much  at  the  Hall.  Mrs. 
Ashdown  has  been  very  kind  to  me,  and  has  nursed 
me  like  a  mother.  I  have  had  a  physician  from 
Ashburn,  and  he  recommends  a  warmer  climate. 
Here,  even  in  summer,  the  air  is  keen;  and  as  I  feel 
myself  now  unable  to  preach,  I  have  consented  to 
give  up  the  curacy  for  the  present.  I  do  this  with 
the  greatest  reluctance,  for  I  love  the  people,  and  I 
see  among  them  a  sphere  of  great  usefulness ;  and  if 
I  am  not  able  to  return,  I  trust  that  God  in  his  mercy 
will  send  hither  a  shepherd,  who  will  faithfully  care 
for  his  flock.  At  the  present  time,  however,  I  yearn 
to  be  with  you.  My  heart's  desire  and  prayer  to 
God  is  that  he  may  make  me  submissive  to  His  will. 
Farewell !  The  day  after  you  receive  this,  I  shall 
be  with  you." 

The  anxieties  and  sorrows  of  his  sisters  were  for- 


THE   GOOD    MISS   KENDRICKS.  19 

gotten  in  the  distress  caused  by  this  letter.  Leonard 
had  hitherto  said  nothing  of  illness,  and  now  they 
knew  indeed  that  he  must  be  ill  to  give  up  thus 
his  pastoral  duties.  Dorothy  roused  herself  hi  the 
sad  thought  of  her  brother's  illness,  and  with  a  pro- 
phetic feeling,  which  she  would  not,  however,  avow 
to  herself,  that  he  came  home  to  die.  Blind  as  she 
was,  she  arranged  the  pillows  for  him  on  the  sofa 
which  she  had  hitherto  occupied,  with  a  zeal  and 
activity  of  self-forgetfulness  that  made  Joanna  see 
the  truth  of  her  own  maxim,  that  with  every  mis- 
fortune there  came  some  compensating  blessing. 

Leonard  returned,  and  even  Dorothy  perceived  how 
great  was  the  change  in  him :  he  was  far  gone  in 
consumption,  and  the  most  inexperienced  eye  could 
see  that  he  had  not  long  to  live.  But  that  short  time 
was  as  the  tarriance  of  an  angel,  and  left  a  blessing 
behind  it.  The  words  of  love  and  consolation  which 
fell  from  his  lips  were  spoken  in  the  spirit  of  his 
divine  Master :  "  Let  not  your  hearts  be  troubled ; 
ye  believe  in  God,  believe  also  in  me.  In  my  father's 
house  are  many  mansions  ;  if  it  were  not  so,  I  would 
have  told  you.  I  go  to  prepare  a  place  for  you." 

The  influence  of  the  dying  brother  was  good  upon 
both  sisters,  but  most  especially  on  Dorothy;  she 
never  left  her  brother  night  nor  day ;  she  sat  with 
his  hand  in  hers,  like  Mary  at  the  feet  of  Christ,  lis- 
tening to  his  blessed  words  of  salvation ;  whilst 
Joanna,  like  Martha,  though  without  her  dissatisfied 
heart,  waited  upon  them  both. 

Joanna  feared  greatly  the  effect  which  her  brother's 
death  would  have  on  Dorothy,  but  the  effect  was 
different  from  what  she  expected.  Whilst  he  lived, 
her  very  breath  seemed  to  hang  upon  his ;  but  when 


20  THE   OSBOItNES   AND 

his  blessed  spirit  had  departed,  like  David  of  old,  she 
arose,  and,  as  it  were,  girded  herself  to  combat  against 
the  weaknesses  of  her  soul,  and  to  practise  all  those 
lessons  of  patience  and  submission,  and  trust  in  God, 
which  she  learned  from  him. 

From  this  time,  in  the  true  spirit  of  Christian 
resignation,  Dorothy,  though  blind  and  scarred  by 
the  ravages  of  a  fearful  disease,  was  never  heard  to 
complain.  She  discovered  in  herself  the  most  re- 
markable sources  of  activity  and  amusement.  Her 
hands  were  never  idle,  whilst  the  cheerfulness  of  her 
mind  made  her  company  really  attractive.  Years 
went  on ;  Dorothy's  once  rich  black  hair  had  become 
white  before  its  time ;  and  when  her  sister,  without 
explaining  the  cause  for  so  doing,  placed  a  quiet  cap 
on  her  head,  she  submitted  without  remark,  in- 
stinctively understanding  the  reason  why  it  was  done. 
Joanna,  when  arrived  at  middle  life,  contrary  to 
what  she  had  done  in  her  youth,  looked  younger  than 
she  really  was ;  and,  small  though  her  income  was 
(she  had  given  up  the  shopkeeping  several  years 
before),  she  was  really  a  person  of  some  consequence 
in  the  town.  In  every  benevolent  scheme  she  was  an 
operator,  managing  or  serving ;  and  a  never-failing 
counsellor  and  comforter  to  the  poor  in  difficulty  or 
distress. 

CHAPTER  II. 

THE   OSBORNES   AND    THEIR   FAMILY   TROCBLES. 

"  IT  is  a  terrible  evening  for  these  poor  people  to 
arrive  on,"  said  Joanna  to  her  sister,  who  sat  knitting 
on  the  sofa,  upon  that  rainy  evening  of  May-fair  day, 
as  the  baggage-wagons  were  unloaded  before  their 


THEIR    FAMILY    TROUBLES.  21 

windows,  and  one  weary  wflman  after  another,  stiff 
with  having  sat  so  many  hours  up  aloft  among  wet 
boxes  and  tired  children,  was  helped  down  froih  her 
elevation,  and  seemed  only  to  put  herself  in  motion 
with  difficulty.  The  good  Joanna  was  full  of  com- 
passion, and  pitied  their  having  to  find  quarters  in 
the  noisy  and  crowded  public-houses,  where  they 
would  be  unwelcome  guests  both  to  landlord  and 
landlady.  Greatly  interested  as  she  was  by  the. 
whole  arrival,  her  sympathies  were  presently  enlisted 
on  behalf  of  a  woman  who,  overcome  by  more  than 
fatigue,  seemed  unable  to  stand,  and  seated  herself  on 
one  of  the  chests;  whilst  a  boy,  of  about  twelve, 
seemed  to  be  the  only  one  who  took  much  thought 
about  her.  She  was  wrapped  in  a  large  gray  cloak ; 
and  the  hood,  which  was  drawn  over  her  head,  par- 
tially revealed  a  face  which  was  pale  and  dejected. 
The  boy  ran  hither  and  thither  to  the  various  groups 
of  women,  who  began  to  move  off  in  various  direc- 
tions, and  then  back  again,  to  the  sick  woman,  for 
whose  comfort  he  seemed  very  solicitous,  for  he 
lugged  along  a  small  chest,  upon  which  he  made  her 
place  her  feet,  and  then  wrapped  her  cloak  about 
her  with  the  most  affectionate  care.  All  this  Joanna 
described  to  her  sister,  and  then  called  her  servant, 
bidding  her  take  her  pattens  and  umbrella,  and  go 
across,  and  ask  if  the  poor  woman  would  come  in  and 
shelter.  Instead  of  returning  with  her  as  was  ex- 
pected, Joanna  saw  her  servant  give  her  her  arm,  and 
sheltering  her  with  her  large  umbrella,  move  off 
along  the  street,  whilst  the  boy  trudged  after,  carrying 
a  large  bundle.  On  the  return  of  the  servant,  it 
appeared  that  the  woman,  who  was  delicate,  had  been 
taken  ill  on  the  road ;  that  she  was  billeted  to  the 


22  THE    OSBORNES   AND 

Talbot ;  and,  as  there  were  two  public-houses  in  th« 
town  of  that  name,  it  was  supposed  to  be  the  one 
lying  at  some  distance,  whereas  it  proved  to  be  the 
one  just  at  hand,  and  thither  the  maid  had  escorted 
her.  The  woman,  she  said,  seemed  to  be  subdued 
and  spiritless,  as  if  she  cared  not  what  became  of  her; 
while  the  boy,  on  the  contrary,  seemed  as  if  he  would 
move  heaven  and  earth  to  get  her  attended  to,  for  he 
•ran  into  the  iiouse,  and  demanded  attention  both  from 
host  and  hostess,  and  never  rested  till  a  comfortabls 
bed,  in  an  upper  room,  was  allotted  to  her,  and  then 
set  about  opening  his  bundle,  and  getting  her  into 
bed,  just  as  if  he  had  been  a  regular  sick-nurse.  The 
woman  had  fallen  into  a  fainting  fit,  she  said,  just  as 
she  had  told  her  that  her  mistress,  Miss  Kendrick, 
had  sent  her ;  but  she  thought  the  boy  understood, 
as  well  as  Mrs.  Tunnicliffe,  the  landlady,  that  her 
mistress,  'who  was  very  good  to  the  poor,  would  go 
and  see  her  if  she  was  no  better,  and  pray  by  her,  or 
she  could  have  the  clergyman,  if  she  liked  it  better; 
only  he  was  such  a  young  man,  and  many  folks 
would  much  rather  have  Miss  Kendrick  than  he. 

Miss  Kendrick  was  very  well  satisfied  with  what 
her  maid  had  done ;  and  commissioning  her,  the  first 
thing  in  the  morning,  to  run  over,  and  inquire  after 
the  invalid,  she  went  to  bed.  Scarcely,  however, 
was  the  servant  down-stairs  the  next  morning,  when 
a  message  came  from  the  sick  woman,  requesting  a 
little  conversation  with  Miss  Kendrick ;  to  which 
was  added,  from  the  landlady,  that'  she  was  so  ill,  she 
could  not  last  long.  In  half  an  hour,  Miss  Kendrick 
was  with  her,  and  her  first  impression  was  that  the 
hand  of  death  was  indeed  upon  her.  She  was  prop- 
ped up  in  bed,  and  seemed  feeble  in  the  last  degree. 


THEIR    FAMILY    TROUBLES.  23 

"Are  we  alone?"  asked  she,  casting  her  mournful 
eyes  round  the  room.  "  We  are,  mother,"  said  tho 
boy,  throwing  himself  on  his  knees  at  the  bed's  foot ; 
"  there  is  only  the  lady,  and  you  and  me.5* 

She  looked  steadily  at  Miss  Kendrick,  and  then 
said,  slowly  and  with  difficulty,  "  I  am  Rebecca — 
your  unhappy,  outcast  sister.  God  brought  me  here 
to  die.  I  knew  it  as  I  entered  the  town,  when  the 
baggage-train  could  not  enter  the  market-place,  but 
made  halt  before  the  very  house  where  I  had  teen  a 
child — from  whence  I  set  out  when  I  took  my  fate 
into  my  own  hands ! " 

Joanna,  petrified  with  astonishment  and  compas- 
sion, seized  her  hand  and  gazed  into  her  face. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  woman,  "  I  am  Rebecca,  your 
sister,  though  you  may  not  recognise  me." 

"  My  poor,  unhappy  sister ! "  exclaimed  Joanna, 
embracing  her  with  tears.  "  Thank  God  that  you 
are  found  at  last !  You  shall  live  with  us — with 
Dorothy,  and  me — you  shall  *yet  be  happy  !" 

"  Never  more  in  this  world !"  interrupted  she.  "I 
know  I  have  not  long  to  live,  and  yet  I  have  much  to 
say — let  me  speak  while  I  have  the  power. — My 
first  husband  died.  1  thought  to  mend  my  condition. 
I  married  a  second  time ;  but  there  was  not  a  bless- 
ing on  anything  I  did.  I  married  yet  more  unhap- 
pily. I  have  had  nine  children  by  my  two  husbands. 
The  youngest  child,  a  girl,  is  left  behind  with  its 
grandmother, — a  good  woman.  This  is  my  youngest 
boy, — he  is  my  Benjamin.  The  two  older  than  he 
died.  It  was  good  for  them.  Of  the  other  six  two 
are  married,  two  are  beyond  seas,  and  one — oh  my 
God,  have  pity  on  the  outcasts  of  society ;  for  all  arc 
thy  children !"  After  a  long  pause,  she  again  pro- 


24  THE  OSBORNES  AND 

ceeded : — "  My  husband  is  a  soldier, — a  private  in  the 
— — ,  now  in  Ireland,  and  which  we  follow.  lie  was 
a  very  handsome  man ;  and  that  was  my  bane.  He 
was  of  an  unbroken  temper,  and  was  not  loved  in  the 
regiment.  1  suffered  much  from  him ;  and  yet  I 
would  not  leave  him.  I  always  went  with  the  regi- 
ment ;  for  the  officers'  ladies  liked  me.  I  was  a  good 
laundress,  and  got  up  their  fine  linens  to  their  mind; 
and  for  this  reason,  spite  of  my  poor  health,  was  per- 
mitted to  accompany  the  regiment  to  Ireland.  I  was, 
however,  taken  very  ill  on  the  journey.  I  began  to 
spit  blood  ;  and  at  Wolverhampton,  I  felt  it  was  all 
over  with  me ;  for  a  dreadful  thing  came  to  my 
knowledge  there."  With  these  words  she  drew 
from  under  her  pillow  a  part  of  a  newspaper, 
which  she  put  into  Joanna's  hand,  and  bade  her 
read,  but  not  aloud.  She  read  how  one  Peter 

Reynolds,  a  private  in   the  regiment  of  foot 

soldiers,  bound  for  Ireland,  who  had  been  guilty 
of  some  misdemeanor  on  the  march,  had  de- 
serted immediately  on  their  arrival  in  Dublin, 
been  retaken,  and  sentenced  by  court-martial  to  be 
shot. 

"  He  is  my  husband,"  said  the  poor  dying  woman 
after  a  time.  "  I  thought  I  should  have  died  as  1 
read  the  paper.  1  told  nobody,  however,  but  him," 
said  she,  looking  at  the  boy,  "  and  he  has  the  sense 
of  a  grown  man.  I  knew  how  little  Reynolds  was 
liked  in  the  regiment,  and  that  there  was  no  hope 
for  him ;  and  for  that  reason  I  wanted  all  the  more 
to  see  him  before  it  happened.  I  thought  I  might  com- 
fort him ;  for  oh,  it's  a  dreadful  thing  to  die  in  that 
way,  when  a  man's  in  his  full  strength."  She  could 
»ay  no  more.  Her  distress  of  mind  was  excessive; 


'THEIR    FAMILY    TROUBLES.  2A 

and  one  fainting  fit  succeeded  another  so  rapidly  that 
she  was  unable  to  converse  again  through  the  day. 
The  boy  in  the  meantime,  who  showed  the  strongest 
affection  towards  her,  and  an  intelligence  and  pru- 
dence beyond  his  years,  won  the  entire  love  of 
Joanna. 

In  the  evening,  as  the  sick  woman  seemed  some- 
what better,  she  was  removed  on  a  bed  to  the  house 
of  her  sisters  ;  and  in  three  days  from  that  time  she 
died.  It  was  an  event  of  course  which  made  a  deal 
of  talk  in  the  town.  Many  people  remembered 
Rebecca  Kendrick  and  her  unhappy  marriage ;  but 
to  the  great  joy  of  her  sisters,  the  miserable  and  dis- 
graceful end  of  her  second  husband  was  never  or 
scarcely  known  in  the  town. 

"  I  wonder  whether  Mr.  Osborne  would  take  poor 
William  as  an  apprentice,"  said  Dorothy  to  her  sister  a 
day  or  two  after  the  funeral;  "a  chemist  and  druggist's 
is  a  good  business,  and  they  are  such  kind  people." 

"  I  have  thought  of  that  too,"  returned  Joanna, 
"  for  we  will  do  all  we  can  for  him ;  what  a  clever, 
nice  boy  he  is !  But  it  is  odd  that  we  have  seen 
nothing  of  the  Osbornes  for  these  three  or  four  days ; 
nor  have  they  sent  down  to  inquire  after  us.  How- 
ever, when  it  gets  dusk,  I  will  put  on  my  things  and 
go  and  have  some  talk  with  them  about  William." 

The  Osbornes  were  Miss  Kendrick's  most  intimate 
friends.  He,  as  it  may  be  inferred,  was  a  chemist 
and  druggist.  He  had  one  of  those  dingy,  old- 
fashioned  shops,  saturated  with  the  smell  of  drugs 
and  physic,  which  are  only  to  be  found  in  old- 
fashioned  places.  His  wife  and  he,  who  had  no 
family,  were  patterns  of  coniugal  felicity ;  each 
thinking  the  other  as  near  perfection  as  poor  human 


26  THE    OSBOBNES   AND 

nature  could  be ;  and  they  were  not  very  far  from 
the  mark,  for  better  people  than  they,  making  allow- 
ance for  some  little  intermixture  of  human  weakness, 
could  hardly  be  found.  They  had  been  fast,  life- 
long friends  of  the  Kendricks ;  and  not  a  week 
passed  without  their  spending  an  evening  together 
It  was  no  wonder,  therefore,  that  Joanna  was  sur- 
prised that  for  the  last  three  or  four  days  they 
had  heard  nothing  of  them.  Joanna  resolved  to  go 
to  them  when  it  was  dusk;  but  as  it  is  not  yet 
dusk,  we  shall  find  the  interval  very  convenient  for 
making  the  reader  acquainted  with  some  farther 
particulars  regarding  them,  which  it  is  very  import- 
ant for  him  to  know. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Osborne  were  now  somewhat  past 
middle  life,  and  had  been  married  nearly  thirty  years. 
At  the  time  of  her  marriage,  there  was  a  young 
sister,  the  daughter  of  her  father  by  a  second  mar- 
riage, dependent  upon  her.  The  mother  died  in 
giving  birth  to  this  child,  who,  however,  never  felt 
her  loss  in  the  love  and  care  of  her  elder  sister.  The 
father  died  when  she  was  about  ten  years  old ;  and 
fioon  afterwards  the  elder  sister  married ;  and  in  her 
husband  the  child  found  a  second  father.  She  grew 
up  gentle  and  beautiful ;  and  the  love  of  this  affec- 
tionate pair  was  lavished  upon  her.  Never  was  girl 
more  tenderly  nurtured,  more  beloved,  or  more  in- 
dulged. She  had  all  her  heart  could  wish  ;  and  she 
appeared  to  deserve  it. 

The  Osbornes,  though  tradespeople,  were  well  to 
do,  and  the  young  lady  was  admitted  to  the  best 
society  of  the  place;  and  as  she  advanced  towards 
womanhood,  had  the  chance  of  making  several  ad- 
vantageous matches.  For  some  time  she  appeared 


THEIR    FAMILY    TROUBLES.  27 

difficult  to  please,  till  at  length  a  gay  young  stranger, 
whom  she  accidentally  met  with,  fixed  her  fancy. 
Her  friends  objected  somewhat  to  the  match.  In 
the  first  place,  he  was  a  stranger ;  in  the  second 
place,  he  lived  far  off,  that  is  to  say,  in  Liverpool ; 
and  to  them,  who  wished  to  have  their  darling  fixed 
near  to  them  for  life,  Liverpool  seemed  a  long  way 
off;  thirdly,  and  which  was  most  important  of  all, 
there  was  a  something — an  indescribable  something — • 
about  this  Louis  Edwards  which  was  unsatisfactory 
to  the  plain-dealing  and  straightforward  sincerity  of 
Mr.  Osborne.  He  was  plausible,  had  a  reason  for 
everything,  and  though  he  was  an  American  by  birth 
and  connections,  he  had  lived  so  many  years  in  Eng- 
land as  to  be  English  in  his  feelings.  Still  for  all  that, 
and  though  he  was  a  broker  by  trade,  and  had  a  part- 
ner, a  man  of  reputation  and  substance,  and  had  altoge- 
ther a  very  imposing  manner,  Mr.  Osborne  never  liked 
him;  and  felt  so  strongty  that  there  was  a  something, 
though  it  was  impossible  to  say  what,  which  created 
misgivings,  that  he  and  his  wife  refused  their  consent. 
Edwards  was  dismissed;  and  the  loving,  gentle, 
all-acquiescent  Phebe  promised  to  give  him  up.  If 
there  be  an  occasion  beyond  all  others  which  awakens 
the  affection  of  parents  to  their  children — and  the 
Osbornes  were  as  parents  to  Phebe — it  is  when  they 
see  a  child  submissively  giving  up  its  beloved  will 
and  wishes  to  their  sterner  reason  and  judgment. 
The  Osbornes  felt  thus,  and  thought  that  they  could 
not  sufficiently  show  their  affection  to  her ;  and  were 
devising  a  thousand  little  schemes  for  her  happiness 
and  indulgence,  when  one  dreary  day  in  November 
she  was  gone !  They  could  not  conceive  whither, 
till  the  second  day's  post  brought  a  letter  from  her 


28  THE   OSBORNES   AND 

beseeching  their  forgiveness,  and  saj  ing  that  as  she 
knew  they  desired  her  happiness,  they  niu^t  allow 
her  to  become  happy  in  her  own  way,  which  was  by 
uniting  her  fate  to  that  of  Edwards.  This  sh«  had 
done,  and  must  now  throw  herself  on  their  mercy, 
assuring  them  that  her  future  life  should  prove  how 
grateful  she  was  for  all  their  former  kindness. 

A  letter  like  this  is  at  such  a  time  a  mockery. 
Better  by  far  is  it  to  weep  over  a  child  borne  to  the 
grave  with  all  its  young  fair  promise  in  the  bud,  than 
to  see  one  that  we  love  as  our  own  life  running  wil- 
fully and  headlong  into  ruin  spite  of  all  our  warning 
and  our  prayers  !  The  Osbornes  thought  so.  Her  de- 
ceit and  disobedience  cut  them  to  the  heart,  and  their 
prejudices  were  only  the  more  strengthened  against 
a  match  which  had  begun  so  badjy.  Grieved  how- 
ever as  they  were,  from  the  bottom  of  their  souls 
they  pitied  her  ;  for  they  felt  sure  that  a  time  would 
come  when  she  would  bitterly  repent. 

"  Alas,  Phebe."  said  good  Mr.  Osborne  in  his  reply 
to  her  letter,  "  what  is  this  which  you  have  done  ! 
But  we  will  not  speak  of  the  sorrow  which  we  fore- 
see. May  God  bless  you,  though  you  have  grieved 
us  sorely !  You  are  young,  and  life  lies  all  before 
you ;  be  a  good  wife ;  be  true  to  your  husband  in 
good  and  in  evil ;  atone  for  your  want  of  duty  to  us 
by  your  duty  to  him ;  and  so  may  God  Almighty 
bless  you!" 

The  Osbornes  did  not  turn  their  backs  on  Phebe ; 
but  remembered  her  in  sorrow  rather  than  in  anger; 
and  this  strong  proof  of  their  affection  touched  her 
much  more  deeply  than  any  evidences  of  their  dis- 
pleasure could  have  done.  The  match,  however, 
iu  a  worldly  point  of  view,  did  not  appear  so  bad. 


THEIR   FAMILY    TROUBLES.  29 

Edwards  lived  handsomely ;  and,  though  Phebe  could 
never  persuade  her  brother  and  sister  to  visit  her, 
she  failed  not  to  tell  them  of  her  prosperity,  of  her 
gay  life  and  acquaintance,  and  of  her  happiness  as  a 
wife  and  mother.  Whether,  however,  she  gave  a 
brighter  colouring  to  things  than  they  deserved ; 
whether  she  wished  to  deceive  others,  or  was  herself 
deceived,  we  cannot  say  ;  but  at  the  very  time  when 
she  was  writing  of  her  happiness  and  prosperity,  her 
husband's  name  appeared  in  the  gazette,  and  they 
were  deeply  insolvent  bankrupts. 

"The  world  is  not  surprised,  my  dear  Phebe,  at 
what  has  happened,  however  you  may  be,"  wrote  Mr. 
Osborne  to  her,  "  nor  are  we.  The  time  of  trial  is  now 
come;  faint  not  now,  nor  lose  courage;  and  above  all 
things  do  not  forget  God,  who  chastises  us  only  in  love." 

Poor  Phebe!  the  time  of  trial  was  indeed  come; 
and,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  she  learnt  what  it 
was  to  deny  herself  and  take  up  her  cross  daily. 
Every  one  finds  this  to  be  a  hard  lesson  ;  and  Phebe 
was  one  to  feel  it  bitterly.  Edwards  removed  from 
Liverpool  to  London ;  had  one  clerkship  after  an- 
other, and  lived  as  he  could,  now  with  money  and 
now  without;  yet  never  losing  his  unabashed  plausi- 
bility, and  buoying  himself  up  with  the  notion  that 
after  all  he  should  do  somehow  or  other. 

Few  and  far  between  were  the  letters  which  Phebe 
wrote  to  her  friends;  and  though  she  never  com- 
plained of  narrow  circumstances,  she  wrote  mourn- 
fully of  the  sickness  and  death  of  two  of  her  chil- 
dren. The  Osbornes  on  their  part  were  extremely 
anxious  about  her ;  and  though  she  never  solicited 
aid  from  them,  the  five  and  ten-pound  notes  which 
good  Mr.  Os borne  occasionally  inclosed  were  always 


30  THE    OSBORNES    AND 

thankfully  accepted.  They  invited  her  and  her  one 
remaining  ehild  to  come  and  visit  them, — to  remain 
through  a  long  winter  with  them ;  but  this  she  de- 
clined, without  assigning  any  reason  for  so  doing. 

Not  long  afterwards,  however,  she  wrote  to  them 
a  humble  letter,  and  one  which  bore  evidence  of  be- 
ing written  with  difficulty ;  it  was  on  behalf  of  hdr 
husband,  to  beg  the  loan  of  a  few  hundred  pounds, 
as  he  had  the  chance  of  entering  into  partnership 
in  a  speculation  which  promised  to  return  cent,  per 
cent.  Mr.  Osborne  refused,  on  the  plea  of  want 
of  confidence  in  Edwards  and  his  schemes.  The 
next  post  brought  a  letter  from  Edwards  himself,  full 
of  the  most  plausible  statements  regarding  his  scheme, 
and  urging  the  loan  of  the  money  almost  as  a  right 
on  behalf  of  his  wife.  This  letter  was  immediately 
followed  by  one  from  Phebe  to  her  sister,  begging  her 
in  the  most  urgent  and  moving  terms  to  use  her  in- 
fluence with  her  husband,  as  not  only  Edwards' 
worldly  prosperity  depended  on  this  money  being 
raised,  but  her  own  happiness  also.  There  was  an 
urgent  tone  of  almost  desperation  in  the  letter,  and 
an  instability  in  the  handwriting,  that  showed  the 
most  agitated  state  of  mind.  The  Osbornes  were 
moved  ;  and,  accompanying  the  money  with  a  letter 
of  grave  tradesman-like  advice  to  Edwards,  Mr.  Os- 
borne remitted  it  on  no  other  security  than  his  note. 

Within  a  few  months,  Phebe  wrote  again ;  the 
cloud  had  evidently  passed  away;  but  from  this  time 
the  tone  of  her  letters  was  much  more  serious  than 
formerly.  She  spoke  little  of  her  husband,  but 
much  of  her  child,  then  six  years  old,  of  which  she 
seemed  extremely  fond.  A  year  went  on,  and  letters 
came  but  seldom ;  a  second  year,  and  then  Edwards  and 


TIIEIIl    FAMILY    TROUBLES.  31 

his  partner  were  again  bankrupt.  Edwards  accused 
his  partner  of  roguery  and  mismanagement,  and  suine 
person  who  accidentally  had  seen  Phebe  in  London, 
brought  news  of  her  wan  and  care-worn  appearance. 

The  relations  thought  more  of  her  distress  than  of 
the  loss  of  their  money.  For  two  more  years  nothing 
was  heard  of  them  ;  and  how  they  lived  never  came 
to  their  relations'  knowledge.  At  length,  one  winter's 
day,  a  woman  wrapped  in  a  large  plaid  cloak  knocked 
at  the  private  door  and  begged  to  speak  with  Mrs. 
Osborue  alone.  After  some  hesitation  she  was 
brought  in;  and  when  they  two  were  together,  she 
announced  herself  as  Phebe  Edwards. 

"  I  know  how  shocked  you  are  to  see  me,"  safd 
she,  "I  am  greatly  changed;  but  that  is  of  small 
account.  I  am  become  regardless  of  my  looks." 

The  good  people  wept  over  her ;  and  received  her 
as  the  father  in  the  gospel  received  his  prodigal  son. 

"  You  are  come  to  stay  with  ug,"  said  they,  "  you 
will  never  leave  us  again." 

"  I  am  going  again  to-night,"  said  Phebe,  "  my 
business  is  urgent.  I  dared  not  write,  nor  would  I 
let  Kdwards  come  himself." 

She  then  explained  that  by  the  kind  interference 
of  a  gentleman  who  had  known  her  husband  in 
Liverpool,  he  had  the  chance  of  a  situation  in  a 
banking-house  in  London,  provided  some  responsible 
man  would  be  surety  for  him  to  the  amount  of  five 
hundred  pounds.  Phebe  paused ;  for  the  money 
her  brother-in-law  had  already  lost  by  her  husband 
was  in  her  mind,  and  she  saw  that  it  was  in  his  also. 

"  I  know  your  thoughts,"  said  she,  "  and  because 
you  have  already  suffered  so  much,  I  would  not 
write  to  you;  but,  brother,  it  is  the  privilege  of  the 


82  THE    OSBORNES    AND 

good  to  forgive  injuries — to  return  good  for  evil. 
Forgive  us,  therefore,  what  you  have  already  suf- 
fered from  us;  I  have  prayed  God  to  forgive  us, 
even  as  I  knew  you  had  done,  and  you  will  not 
close  your  heart  against  us.  Oh ! "  said  she, 
clasping  together  her  hands,  and  fixing  upon  him 
her  large,  sunken,  and  tearless  eyes,  "  I  have 
made  my  child  pray  to  God  every  night  to  bless 
you ;  because  I  thought  that  the  prayers  of  a 
child  most  surely  ascended  to  heaven !  I  know," 
continued  she  more  calmly,  "that  you  have  very 
little  reason  to  trust  either  Edwards  or  me ;  but  if 
you  cast  us  off,  then  are  we  lost  for  ever  !  I  do  not 
pretend  or  attempt  to  excuse  Edwards ;  but  he  is 
heartily  sorry  for  the  past — he  has  been  unfortunate, 
we  have  all  suffered  much,  and  we  are  all  humble 
now ;  and  from  you  we  ask  this  one  chance  of  re- 
gaining our  place  in  society  !" 

"  Oh  stay  with  us,  Phebe,"  said  Mrs.  Osborne, 
quite  overcome  by  her  sister's  words,  "  stay  with  us, 
and  you  and  your  child  shall  never  want." 

"  The  first  letter,"  returned  Phebe,  "  which  I 
received  from  Mr.  Osborne  after  my  marriage,  con- 
tained these  words,  'atone  for  your  want  of  duty  to 
us  by  your  duty  to  your  husband,  and  so  may  God 
Almighty  bless  you!'  these  words  I  have  never  for- 
gotten. They  have  been  hitherto,  and  shall  still  be, 
the  law  of  my  life ;  let  my  husband's  fortune  be 
what  it  may,  I  abide  with  him  to  the  last." 

"  She  is  right,  Sarah,  she  is  right,"  said  Mr.  Os- 
borne, wiping  his  eyes  and  rising  from  his  scat ;  "and 
I  will  be  surety  for  Edwards  for  her  sake.  I  will 
give  him  this  one  trial  more." 

Poor  Phebe,  who  hitherto  had  not  shed  one  tear, 


THEIR  FAMILY  TROUBLES.  33 

how  overcome  by  the  generous  kindness  ot  her 
brothe.r,  covered  her  face  with  both  her  hands  and 
wept  like  a  child.  How  the  rest  of  the  day  was 
spent  may  easily  be  imagined ;  the  best  which  the 
house  could  offer  was  set  before  her ;  and  her  sister, 
taking  her  into  her  own  chamber,  questioned  her 
1  closely  of  her  wants  and  actual  condition.  But 
whatever  Phebe's  sufferings  had  been,  she  kept 
much  to  herself.  To  poverty  she  confessed,  and  to 
all  the  hardships  and  anxieties  which  poverty  brings 
with  it ;  but  not  one  word  did  she  utter  against  her 
husband,  although  her  sister  never  lost  the  impres- 
sion that  she  had  suffered  much  unkindness  from  him. 

True  to  her  first  intentions,  she  returned  by  coach 
that  night  to  London,  taking  with  her  good  store  of 
many  things  which  the  bounty  and  overflowing 
affection  of  her  sister  heaped  upon  her. 

Phebe's  visit  had  entirely  reinstated  her  in  the 
hearts  of  her  relations,  and  the  next  year  Mr.  Osborne 
did  such  an  unheard-of  thing  as  go  to  London  him- 
self, o,n  business  he  said,  but  in  reality  to  see  her  and 
her  children :  for  a  second  child,  a  little  girl,  was 
now  born  to  her.  On  his  return,  he  related  that 
they  were  living  quietly,  and  with  some  appearance 
of  comfort ;  but  that  there  was  still  a  look  of  depres- 
sion and  anxiety  about  her,  while  Edwards  on  the 
contrary  seemed  scarcely  changed,  excepting  that  he 
was  grown  slightly  grey  and  much  stouter  than  when 
he  married  ;  but  he  was  as  well  dressed  as  then ;  as 
gay  in  spirits,  as  plausible ;  and  to  the  conscientious 
and  somewhat  suspicious  mind  of  Mr.  Osborue,  as 
unsatisfactory  as  ever.  For  his  own  peace  of  mind 
as  regarded  them,  it  was  a  pity  that  he  had  ever  been 
to  visit  them.  The  only  thing  that  gave  them  real 

3 


34  THE  OSBORNES  AND 

satisfaction  was  that  Edwards  retained  his  situation ; 
and  at  the  end  of  the  second  year  received  an  increase 
of  salary,  which  Phebe  did  not  fail  to  communi- 
cate to  her  relations.  Three  years  had  now  gone  on, 
and  we  are  arrived  at  the  period  when  our  story  opens. 

The  Osbornes  and  the  Kendricks  were,  as  we 
have  said,  fast  friends;  the  somewhat  similar  mar-* 
riages  of  Phebe  and  the  unhappy  Rebecca,  had  made, 
for  years,  a  great  sympathy  of  feeling  between  them. 
Mrs.  Osborne  was  at  their  house,  and  sitting  by  the 
side  of  Rebecca's  bed  when  she  died,  and  her  husband 
had  attended  her  to  the  grave. 

Much  attached,  however,  as  they  were  to  their 
friends,  they  said  nothing  of  the  disgrace  which  had 
befallen  Rebecca's  husband  and  the  father  of  the 
nephew  whom  they  had  adopted,  thinking,  with  a 
natural  and  jealous  feeling  of  family  pride,  that  there 
was  no  good  in  publishing  the  dishonour  of  one's  own 
connexions. 

Some  such  feeling  as  this  operated  on  the  mind  of 
good  Mrs.  Osborne  as  she  sat  in  the  dusk  of  evening 
in  the  little  parlour  beside  the  shop,  with  the  candles 
unlighted,  and  heard  her  friend  Miss  Kendrick  in- 
quire with  astonishment  about  Mr.  Osborne's  sudden 
journey  to  London,  of  which  Mr.  Isaacs  the  shop- 
man had  told  her. 

Yes,  said  Mrs.  Osborne,  but  in  an  incommuni- 
cative tone,  her  husband  was  suddenly  called  to  Lon- 
don by  a  letter  from  poor  Phebe.  She  feared  things 
were  going  on  but  badly  with  them, — how,  she  did 
not  say,  merely  adding,  "  but  I  wish  nothing  to  be 
said  about  it;  the  least  said  the  better  as  we  all 
know." 

Joanna  was  a  reasonable  woman,  and  she  excused 


THEIR    FAMILY    TROUBLES.  86 

her  friend's  reserve,  sincerely  sympathising  with  her 
in  having  any  new  cause  of  anxiety  and  distress. 
Leaving  her,  therefore,  to  open  her  business  respect- 
ing her  nephew  to  Mrs.  Osborne  as  a  sort  of  prelimi- 
nary step  in  the  affair,  we  will  communicate  to  the 
reader  that  unhappy  circumstance  regarding  the 
Edwards's,  which  Joanna  knew  only  later. 

The  letter  which  Phehe  had  written  was  rather 
indefinite,  but  one  which  filled  those  to  whom  it  was 
addressed  with  horror.  It  spoke  of  temptation  and 
crime,  of  loss  of  character  for  ever,  and  of  the  severest 
punishment  of  the  law,  and  besought  her  brother-in- 
law  to  hasten  to  them  immediately.  He  did  so,  and 
found  his  worst  fears  to  be  true.  Edwards  had  been 
again  tempted  to  embark  in  some  wild  speculation ; 
money  was  wanted  which  his  own  means  did  not 
supply,  and  having  gained  the  confidence  of  his  em- 
ployers, he  had  taken  advantage  of  it,  and  had,  at 
two  several  times,  drawn  money  from  the  bank  by 
forged  orders  in  the  names  of  merchants  who  had 
large  dealings  with  the  house.  In  the  first  instance, 
six  months  had  elapsed  without  detection ;  in  the 
second,  to  a  larger  amount,  detection  came  speedily. 

On  the  first  moment  of  alarm,  he  had  escaped  on 
board  a  vessel  bound  for  Hamburgh ;  but  had  been 
pursued  and  taken  while  the  vessel  was  under  weigh. 
There  was  not  a  word  to  be  said  in  his  extenuation ; 
the  fact  was  as  it  were  proved  upon  him  ;  he  was  in 
the  fangs  of  the  law,  and  was  committed  to  take  hia 
trial. 

Such  were  the  facts  respecting  which  Mrs.  Osborne 
might  well  be  excused  from  saying  much.  In  a 
week's  time  her  husband  was  again  at  home;  and 
Miss  Kendrick  made  application  on  behalf  of  her 


««>  THE    OSBORNES   AND 

nephew  being  apprenticed  to  his  business.  Mr.  Os- 
borne  said  that  he  had  just  engaged  a  young  appren- 
tice, whom  he  shortly  expected ;  that  two  at  once 
was  rather  too  much;  but  considering  the  case  oi 
poor  Reynolds,  and  that  it  was  to  oblige  Miss  Ken- 
drick, he  would  talk  with  Mr.  Isaacs  and  see  if  it 
could  not  be  arranged ;  and  that  she  should  know  in 
a  day  or  two.  Within  a  day  or  two,  Joanna  and  her 
sister  resolved  upon  going  to  Matlock  for  a  few  weeks, 
and  taking  their  nephew  with  them ;  so  that  there 
was  full  time  to  deliberate.  The  season  was  fine. 
Miss  Kendrick  found  company  to  their  taste  at 
Matlock ;  and  to  the  great  joy  of  the  boy,  who  now 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life  knew  what  ease  and 
pleasure  were,  the  stay  was  lengthened  to  the  end  of 
July. 

On  their  return,  Miss  Kendrick  went  to  hear  the 
decision  of  her  friend  the  druggist ;  again  he  was  not 
in  the  shop,  but  there  stood  behind  the  counter  a 
slim,  gentlemanly  youth,  who,  under  the  direction  of 
Mr.  Isaacs,  was  folding  up,  very  successfully,  penny- 
worths of  Epsom  salts  and  flowers  of  brimstone.  This 
was  evidently  the  new  apprentice  of  whom  Mr.  Os- 
borne  had  spoken.  On  inquiring  for  that  gentleman, 
Miss  Kendrick  learned,  to  her  surprise,  that  both  he 
and  his  wife  were  in  London. 

"It  must  be  about  that  miserable  business  of  the 
Edwards's,"  said  she  to  Dorothy  on  her  return.  Of 
course  it  was,  and  all  the  town  knew  it  by  this  time ; 
for  the  newspapers  had  detailed  the  affair  from  one 
end  of  the  kingdom  to  the  other. 

The  trial  was  now  over.  Edwards  had  pleaded 
his  own  cause  most  skilfully  and  eloquently,  but  in 
vain ;  he  was  found  guilty,  and  condemned  to  four- 


THEIB    FAM/LY    TROUBLES.  3*? 

teen  years'  transportation.  On  hearing  his  sentence, 
Edwards  seemed  to  feel,  for  the  first  time,  the  crush- 
ing weight  of  his  unhappy  circumstances.  A  paleness 
as  of  death  overspread  his  countenance ;  and,  but  for 
the  support  of  the  turnkey,  he  would  have  fallen  to 
the  ground.  Mr.  Osborne  visited  him  the  next  day 
in  prison ;  and,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  felt  com- 
passion for  him.  Edwards  was  in  fact  a  man  of  real 
talent  and  great  power  of  mind,  with  some  tendencies 
to  good ;  but  alas  !  he  was  one  of  those  Avho  have  not 
the  ability  to  resist  temptation.  He  was  of  a  sanguine 
temperament,  and  was  always  confident  of  success. 
When,  therefore,  humiliation  and  failure  did  come, 
he  was  only  the  more  cast  down.  His  spirit  was 
now  broken,  and  the  better  parts  of  his  character 
came  forth.  These,  as  it  were,  took  the  kind  heart 
of  Mr.  Osborne  by  surprise  ;  and  now,  with  a  reac- 
tion of  feeling  which  is  very  natural  to  a  generous* 
mind,  he  felt  as  if  he  must  compensate  for  his  hitherto 
hard  judgment;  and  this  he  did  by  more  than  free 
forgiveness. 

Phebe  during  the  whole  time  had  been  calm  and 
collected.  The  worst  had  come  that  could  come ; 
and  God  and  good  men  had  not  abandoned  her. 
That  kind  brother,  who  had  been  as  a  father  to  her 
in  her  youth,  stood  by  her  in  this  hour  of  trial.  H& 
had  already  adopted  her  son  as  his  own ;  and  thus 
removed,  as  it  were,  from  the  knowledge  and  con- 
tamination of  evil,  she  trusted  that  his  course  through 
life  might  be  easier  and  happier  than  that  of  his 
parents.  Phebe's  resolve  from  the  first  had  been  to- 
remove  with  her  youngest  child,  a  little  girl  of  two 
years  old,  to  the  land  where  her  husband  was  now  a 
banished  man.  Her  bx-other  made  no  objection;  and 


38  THE   TWO   APPRENTICES. 

he  and  his  wife  accordingly  came  up,  two  weeks  be« 
fore  the  time  of  her  departure,  to  provide  for  her 
comforts  on  the  voyage,  and  to  take  leave  of  her  for 
ever.  She  sailed  at  the  beginning  of  August ;  and 
the  convict  ship  in  which  was  her  husband  at  the  end 
of  the  same  month. 

Their  careers  seemed  thus  brought  to  an  end  in 
this  hemisphere ;  and  therefore  leaving  them,  the  one 
with  his  weaknesses  and  his  misdeeds,  the  other  expi- 
ating the  errors  of  her  youth  by  a  life  of  patience  and 
duty,  we  will  turn  more  particularly  to  the  son,  who 
•will  henceforth  be  one  of  the  principal  heroes  of  our 
little  story. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  TWO  APPRENTICES. 

THE  youth,  like  his  father,  was  called  Louis,  with 
the  additional  Christian  name  of  William,  which  his 
mother  had  given  to  him  in  love  and  grateful  remem- 
brance of  her  brother-in-law  Mr.  Osborne ;  and  now 
his  good  uncle  and  taunt,  anxious  to  remove  from  him 
any  infamy  connected  with  his  father's  misconduct, 
transposed  and  slightly  altered  his  names,  and  called 
him  Edward  Lewis  Williams.  Edward  Williams 
was  therefore  only  an  ordinary  young  apprentice — it 
was  given  out  that  he  was  an  orphan — with  whose 
history  the  world  had  nothing  to  do;  and  though 
Mr.  Isaacs  and  the  whole  household  soon  saw  that  he 
was  not  treated  like  an  ordinary  apprentice,  the  world 
did  not  readily  conjecture  that  he  was  the  son  of  the 
convict  Edwards. 

"  Let  Williams  come  into  the  parlour,"  said  Mr. 


THE    TWO    APPRENTICES.  31 

Osborne,  as  he  was  leaving  the  shop  for  the  evening, 
to  his  assistant  Mr.  Isaacs,  "  I  would  have  a  little 
talk  with  him  before  his  fellow-apprentice  comes; 
he  seems  a  sharp,  clever  youth,  I  think,"  said  Mr. 
Osborne. 

"  A  little  too  much  of  a  gentleman  at  present," 
returned  Mr.  Isaacs,  who  was  a  thorough  tradesman, 
and  had  no  patience  with  any  dandjism  behind  the 
counter,  "and  sharp  and  clever  he  is  with  a  witness; 
he  has  broken  half  a  gross  of  vials,  two  graduated 
measures,  and  a  Corbyn  quart,  within  the  last  fort- 
night; but  he  has  taken  prodigiously  to  practicai 
chemistry,  and  so  that  he  does  not  blow  the  houso 
up,  he  may  be  of  some  use  in  time." 

"  We  must  teach  him  to  be  careful,"  said  Mr.  Os- 
borne, advancing  to  the  door,  "  send  him  in  as  soon 
as  he  comes,"  repeated  he,  and  disappeared  through 
the  half-glass  door  with  the  green  silk  curtain,  that 
led  to  the  parlour  where  his  good  wife  always  sat  at 
her  work. 

Mr.  Osborne  had  a  little  code  of  morals — it  is  a 
thousand  pities  that  it  never  was  printed — which  he 
delivered  orally  to  his  apprentices  many  times  during 
the  earlier  part  of  their  apprenticeship ;  and  he  now 
wished  particularly  to  insist  on  that  part  which  re. 
lated  to  "your  duties  towards  your  fellow-appren*- 
tices."  This  warned  of  bad  example,  either  set  by 
themselves  or  followed  in  others ;  insisted  on  truth, 
sobriety,  kindness;  on  ad  vising  in  love;  on  "doing  as 
they  would  be  done  by."  Mrs.  Osborne  always  cried 
when  her  husband  thus  lectured  his  young  appren- 
tices. She  felt  as  if  the  boys  were  her  own  children, 
and  she  always  said  that  no  clergyman  could  preach 
to  them  as  her  husband  did.  "And  now  remember," 


40  THE    TWO    APPRENTICES. 

concluded  Mr.  Osborne,  "that  the  happiness  and 
well-being  of  your  future  life  depend  upon  the  dis- 
positions you  cultivate  and  the  habits  you  acquire  in 
youth  ; — are  you  idle,  wasteful,  unpunctual,  dilatory 
in  youth,  it  is  vain  to  look  for  industry,  frugality, 
exactness,  and  promptitude  in  after-life.  A  religious, 
active  youth  will  ensure,  as  far  as  human  means  can 
do  it,  a  respectable  and  prosperous  age!"  These  last 
words  Mr.  Osborne  never  failed  to  speak  with  re- 
markable emphasis,  nor  did  he  omit  it  on  this  occa- 
sion. Thus  far,  the  young  apprentice  had  been  fed 
with  what  may  be  called,  in  the  style  of  Jean  Paul 
or  our  Carlyle,  the  common  apprentice-bread  ;  after- 
wards came  the  cake-of-love  which  was  broken  for 
his  especial  eating;  and  this  was  literally  a  love-feast, 
at  which  the  good  aunt  as  well  as  uncle  assisted. 

Some  little  they  said  on  his  peculiar  circumstances, 
on  the  awful  example  which  would  ever  remain  be- 
fore him  in  his  father's  career ;  but  oh,  how  tenderly 
and  lovingly  was  this  warning  enforced !  The  youth 
— and  he  was  a  slender,  handsome  youth — sat  with 
his  graceful  head  supported  on  his  well-formed  hand, 
and  his  intelligent  brown  eyes  fixed  on  the  counte- 
nance of  his  affectionate  monitors.  He  looked  hand- 
some; and  they  saw  in  him  the  fairest  promises  of 
good, — they  saw  in  him  the  support,  and  comfort, 
and  pride  of  their  old  age.  They  besought  him  to  be 
steadfast  in  his  duties  both  to  God  and  man;  they 
besought  him  to  deserve  the  love  which  they  were 
willing  to  give  him ;  and  in  them,  they  said,  ho 
should  never  want  a  friend.  They  spoke  with  tears, 
and  as  the  seal  of  the  covenant  between  them,  they 
gave  him  a  new  Bible,  which  they  prayed  him  to 
study  diligently.  The  youth  began  to  say  something 


THE    TWO    APPRENTICES.  41 

about  gratitude ;  but  his  voice  trembled,  and  he  was 
so  much  affected  that  he  could  not  go  on.  The  old 
people  gave  him  their  hands,  and  said  that  it  was  not 
needful ;  they  understood  his  feelings,  and  were  sure 
he  would  try  to  deserve  their  love. 

Mrs.  Osborne  ordered  in  a  very  good  supper  that 
night ;  the  apple-pie  that  had  been  intended  for  the 
morrow's  dinner  was  sent  in,  and  cold  beef,  and 
pickle,  and  roast  potatoes  with  plenty  of  butter  i  and 
then  the  smart  young  apprentice  went  out  to  put  up 
the  shop-shutters,  secretly  rejoicing  to  himself  that  it 
was  for  the  last  time,  inasmuch  as  the  new  apprentice 
would  come  the  next  day,  and  then,  as  the  junior, 
this  would  henceforth  be  his  duty. 

We  have  spoken  of  the  Osbornes'  love-feast ;  the 
Miss  Kendricks  also  made  one  for  their  nephew, 
which  they  intended  should  last  for  a  whole  day. 
They  hired  a  post-chaise,  and  drove  to  the  pleasant 
village  of  Hanbury  in  Needwood  Forest,  where  lived 
some  old  friends  of  theirs, — a  good  farmer  and  his 
wife.  Their  nephew  walked  about  the  farmer'a 
abundant  garden,  and  ate  fresh-gathered  apples  from 
the  trees,  and  strolled  out  by  himself  into  the  fields, 
and  came  home  just  in  time  for  dinner.  And  what 
a  dinner  it  was,  with  game,  and  hot  apple-pie,  and 
cream,  and  syllabubs!  and  how  merry  the  little  fat 
farmer  was,  and  his  wife  too,  and  how  they  all  ate, 
and  drank,  and  chatted,  and  laughed  !  Even  Aunt 
Dorothy,  she  was  as  merry  as  anybody. 

After  dinner,  William  went  out  again  by  himself. 
He  had  been  rather  low-spirited  the  day  before  about 
leaving  the  aunts  that  he  loved  so  well  and  going 
'prentice ;  but  now  all  dull  thoughts  seemed  driven 
away.  There  was  something  inspiriting  in  the  bii^ht, 


42  THE    TWO    APPRENTICES. 

breezy  autumn  air,  as  he  strolled  along  through  the 
old  pasture  fields,  and  saw  the  feathery  seeds  of  the 
thistle  and  the  great  groundsel  lifted  up  and  carried 
over  his  head  by  the  wind,  and  the  yellow  harvest- 
fields  lying  amid  the  deep  repose  of  the  woodlands 
around,  and  the  harvesters  piling  up  the  golden 
shocks  of  corn  on  the  heavy  wain,  which  moved  on- 
ward now  and  then,  silently  as  in  a  dream.  He  sat 
down  on  the  dry  slope  of  the  field,  with  the  little 
shrubby  tufts  of  the  rosy-hued  rest-harrow  at  his 
feet ;  and  thought  about  his  past,  life  and  his  future. 
There  was  a  deal  of  hardship,  and  sorrow,  and  trouble 
in  his  past  life,  which  was  best  known  to  himself  and 
to  his  Almighty  Father ;  and  which  he  someway  or 
other  shrunk  from  telling  to  his  kind  aunts.  There 
was  no  use  in  telling  it  to  them,  he  thought,  and  he 
was  right ;  for  it  would  have  done  them  no  good,  nor 
him  either.  All  this  now  passed  in  clear  review  be- 
fore him ;  it  was  like  a  procession  of  dark  shadows ; 
one  after  another  they  went  by,  and  ended  in  that 
wet  night  of  May-fair  day  and  his  mother's  death. 
But  yet  that  death  was  not  as  sad  as  many  things  in 
her  life  had  been ;  and  the  boy  thought  of  her  grave 
in  the  little  churchyard  of  her  native  town  as  of  her 
truest  resting-place.  The  only  pleasant  thought  in 
the  past  was  of  his  little  sister, — the  little  rosy- 
cheeked  Susan,  who  was  left  with  the  old  Methodist 
grandmother  at  Truro  in  Cornwall.  Susan  was  very 
happy ;  and  above  all  things  liked  going  with  the  old 
woman  to  chapel,  where  the  people  all  sang  so  loud. 
It  was  a  pleasant  thought,  that  of  Susan.  Then  came 
his  aunts, — Dorothy,  blind,  and  with  her  hair  like 
snow,  yet  as  cheerful  as  a  lark,  and  so  active !  No- 
body that  saw  her  at  home  could  ever  think  her 


THE   TWO    APPRENTICES.  43 

blind  !  And  Joanna,  who  never  thought  about  her- 
self, but  was  always  working  or  scheming  for  the 
good  of  somebody  or  other ;  who  was  full  of  resources 
for  every  difficulty,  and  who  suggested  good  motives 
for  everybody's  actions.  Never  in  all  this  world, 
poor  William  thought,  were  there  better  women 
than  his  aunts;  it  would  be  impossible  for  him  to 
turn  out  badly,  belonging,  as  he  did,  to  such  good 
people.  William  thought  of  all  the  pleasure  they 
had  given  him,  of  the  happy  weeks  at  Matlock,  of 
the  collection  of  minerals  they  had  bought  for  him, 
of  the  new  clothes  they  had  given  him, — how  they 
were  about  to  put  him  apprentice  to  a  respectable 
business,  how  they  had  given  him  a  new  Bible  and 
euch  a  handsome  prayer-book  as  would  make  it  a 
pleasure  to  go  to  church ;  and  to  wind  up  all,  how 
they  had  hired  a  chaise  and  brought  him  out  into  the 
country,  which  he  enjoyed  so  much,  just  on  purpose 
to  make  his  last  day  of  freedom  pleasant.  All  this  he 
thought  of,  and  then  made  a  little  vow  with  himself 
that  he  would  be  very  obedient  and  good  as  an  ap- 
prentice, and  be  industrious  in  learning  his  business ; 
and  then,  when  he  was  a  man  and  his  aunts  were 
old,  that  he  might  be  able  to  do  something  for  them 
in  return.  He  grew  quite  in  lave  with  his  good 
resolves,  and  then  fell  into  a  charming  day-dream  of 
happily-accomplished  wishes,  from  which  he  was 
roused  by  the  sound  of  voices  and  the  creaking  of 
a  loaded  wagon,  which,  with  its  piled-up  sheaves, 
went  brushing  slowly  past  the  tall  hedge-row  trees 
behind  him.  It  was  the  wagon  which,  two  hours 
before,  he  had  been  watching  in  the  distant  fields; 
and  then  the  thought  first  occurred  to  him  that  it 
vras  time  for  him  to  go  back  to  the  farm-house.  He 


44  THE   TWO   APPRENTICES. 

ran  hastily  back,  buoyant-hearted  with  all  his  good 
resolutions,  and  was  a  little  alarmed  to  see  the  post- 
chaise  standing  at  the  door.  Aunt  Dorothy  and  the 
farmer's  wife  were  seated  on  the  horse-block,  and 
Joanna  and  the  farmer  were  looking  out  from  the 
farm-yard  gate ;  they  evidently  were  looking  for 
him,  and  then,  all  at  once,  for  the  first  time  since  he 
had  been  out,  he  remembered  that  his  aunt  Joanna 
had  warned  him  not  to  be  long,  not  above  an  hour ; 
for  they  wanted  to  be  at  home  in  good  time — how 
could  he  have  forgotten  ?  Aunt  Joanna  \ooked  dis- 
pleased as  he  came  up ;  he  had  never  seen  her  look 
displeased  before. 

"  Well,  youngster,  we  Ve  had  a  pretty  hunt  for 
you,"  said  the  farmer,  when  he  reached  the  gate. 

"  You  must  have  forgotten  what  I  said,"  remarked 
Aunt  Joanna. 

"  Ah,  Master  William,"  began  the  farmer's  wife, 
"  I've  had  a  pretty  time  to  pacify  your  Aunt 
Dorothy;  she  thought  you  must  have  got  drowned, 
or  some  mischief." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  said  William ;  and  felt  quite 
humble  and  submissive,  but  there  was  no  time  or 
opportunity  to  say  more.  He  hurried  into  the  par- 
lour to  have  tea,  or  coffee,  or  wine.  There  was 
plum-cake,  seed-cake,  and  bread  and  butter :  he 
must  have  something — he  could  eat  nothing ;  he 
wanted  so  much  to  make  his  peace,  with  everybody. 
But  there  was  no  chance  for  his  getting  in  a  word  ; 
his  aunts,  and  the  farmer  and  his  wife,  were  at  the 
chaise-door,  in  the  full  energy  and  activity  of  leave- 
taking.  There  was  a  basket  full  of  eggs,  a  bottle 
of  cream,  and  some  fresh  butter  to  go  into  the 
chaise ;  there  was  a  hamper  of  apples  and  a  couple 


THE    TWO   APPRENTICES.  45 

of  fowls  to  be  stowed  away,  for  all  of  which  the 
aunts  had,  first  of  all,  to  express  astonishment,  and 
then  thanks  ;  and,  amid  all  this,  they  and  their 
nephew  seated  themselves  in  the  chaise,  and  off  they 
drove.  William  sat  silent,  and  felt  unhappy ;  his 
heart  trembled  at  the  thought  of  anger ;  he  had  seen 
BO  much  of  it  formerly,  and  so  little  of  it  in  the  last 
happy  weeks  of  his  life.  He  wished  his  aunts 
would  but  begin  to  talk ;  but  for  some  time  they 
did  not,  nor  did  he. 

At  length  began  Aunt  Joanna: — "  My  dear  boy," 
said  she,  "  nothing  will  be  more  necessary  to  you, 
in  life,  than  strict  punctuality.  Now,  when  I  had 
told  you  to  be  back  soon,  what  could  keep  you  out 
so  long — when  you  might  see  that  it  was  getting 
late,  and  the  dew  was  falling.  What  were  you 
doing  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  said  he. 

"  Nothing  ! "  she  repeated.  "  That  is  hardly 
likely — an  active  boy  like  you  must  have  been 
doing  something." 

William  might  have  said  that  he  had  been  busy 
with  his  thoughts,  reviewing  the  past,  and  making 
good  resolves  for  the  future.  He  thought  of  saying 
so ;  but  then  it  occurred  to  him  that  perhaps  his 
aunts  would  not  believe  him  :  he  had  often  been 
disbelieved  in  former  days,  when  he  had  spoken  the 
honest  truth.  A  sullen  cloud,  like  the  spirit  of 
those  dark  former  days,  fell  upon  him,  and  he  again 
replied  to  his  aunt's  question,  three  times  repeated, 
that  "  he  had  been  doing  nothing." 

His  aunt  said  no  more.  Neither  she  nor  Dorothy 
said  much  during  the  rest  of  the  drive  homeward  ; 
they  were  sorry  to  see  him,  as  they  thought,  per- 


46  THE    TWO   APPRENTICES. 

verse  an-d  sullen,  and  not  wishing  to  excite  an 
antagonist  spirit,  which  they  fancied  they  saw  in 
him,  they  sat  silent,  and  mourned  to  themselves. 

He,  on  his  part,  sat  between  them,  dispirited  and 
out  of  humour.  This  was  the  end,  then,  of  all  his 
good  resolutions:  nobody  would  give  him  credit  for 
meaning  to  do  right — that  was  always  the  way. 
His  aunts,  after  all,  were  as  unjust  as  anybody  else. 
All  his  good  resolutions  seemed  folly  and  nonsense ; 
he  despised  himself  for  them,  and  said,  in  his  own 
heart,  that  it  was  no  use  trying  to  be  good.  The 
dark  phantoms  which  he  had  called  up  frcm  the 
past,  and  made  to  pass  before  him,  seemed  to  have 
possession  of  him,  and  he  remembered  mournfully 
the  chapter  which,  the  evening  before,  he  had  read 
in  his  new  Bible  to  his  Aunt  Dorothy,  of  him  who 
took  seven  other  spirits  unto  him  worse  than  him- 
self, and  the  last  state  of  that  man  was  worse  than 
the  first. 

So  ended  their  Love  Feast.  But  it  was  a  real 
Love  Feast  for  all  that.  It  was  only  as  if  the  love- 
cake  had  been  a  little  burned  in  the  baking — human 
endeavours  are  so  seldom  perfect. 

But  now,  for  six  months  after  this  time.  Mr. 
Isaacs  went  to  church  every  Sunday  evening;  and, 
as  the  Osbornes'  pew  adjoined  that  of  the  Miss 
Kendricks,  and  they  regularly  attended  church 
twice  in  the  day,  which  Mrs.  Osborne  did  not, 
because  her  husband  only  went  in  the  morning,  he 
mostly  walked  home  with  them;  and  when  there 
was  no  moon,  and  the  streets  therefore  as  good  as 
dark— for  the  scanty  oil  lamps  were  not  worth 
speaking  of— he  offered  an  arm  to  each  sister,  which 
had  given  rise,  in  the  minds  of  the  two  most  noto- 


THE   TWO    APPRENTICES.  47 

nous  gossips  of  the  place,  Mrs.  Morley  and  Mrs. 
Proctor,  that  Mr.  Isaacs  had  a  liking  for  Miss 
Joanna  Kendrick.  The  report  had  even  reached 
the  ears  of  the  parties  themselves ;  but  they  seemed 
so  amazingly  indifferent  about  it,  that  people  left 
them  to  do  as  they  would,  only  just  speaking  of  it 
now  and  then  to  keep  the  idea  alive,  as  a  town 
corporation  walks  its  parish  boundaries  every  seven 
years  or  so,  to  keep  their  memory  from  dying  out. 

"  And  how  does  William  get  on,"  asked  Miss. 
Kendrick,  therefore,  one  Sunday  evening,  from 
Mr.  Isaacs,  on  whose  arm  she  leaned. 

"  Pretty  well,"  said  he,  in  a  half-hesitating  tone. 

"  Only  pretty  well,  still !  "  she  returned. 

"  Why,  you  see,"  said  Isaacs,  "  he  has  not  the 
natural  facility  of  mind  that  Williams  has.  That 
youth  has  something  quite  uncommon  about  him — if 
he  had  but  stability  he  might  do  anything.  They 
now  take  regular  Latin  lessons,  and  that  prevents  his 
attending  to  many  other  things.  Latin  is  abso- 
lutely necessary,  and  they  neither  of  them  under- 
stood a  word  of  it." 

"  What,  then,"  began  Joanna,  somewhat  cheered, 
"  had  this  clever  youth  been  as  much  neglected  as 
our  p6"or  nephew  ?  " 

"  He  has  knowledge  enough,  and  to  spare,"  said 
Isaacs,  "  but  not  exactly  of  the  right  kind ;  he  is 
prodigiously  smart  and  clever,  and  knows  how  to 
make  the  most  of  what  he  has.  If  he  have  but 
stability  and  good  conduct,  he  may  get  on  won- 
derfully." 

These  words  sunk  deep  into  the  hearts  of  both 
aunts.  How  was  it?  Was  Williams  above  the 
average  capacity  of  youths,  or  was  their  nephew 


48  THE   TWO    APPRENTICES. 

belaw  it?  They  were  troubled  and  discontented. 
They  feared  that  he  di'd  not  make  all  the  efforts  in 
his  power ;  perhaps  he  was  careless  and  inattentive  : 
they  must  talk  with  him,  and  try  to  rouse  up  a 
spirit  of  emulation  in  him.  Next  moment,  they 
were  half-disposed  to  be  out  of  humour  with  his 
companion's  facility  of  mind — it  is  so  unpleasant  to 
be  outstripped  ourselves,  or  to  see  those  one  lovea 
and  cares  for  outstripped. 

The  next  evening,  the  aunts  sent  their  compli- 
ments to  Mr.  Osborne,  and  begged  that  he  would 
let  their  nephew  drink  tea  with  them.  He  came, 
and  by  the  gentlest  manoeuvres  in  the  world, 
the  affectionate  aunts  began  to  test  the  young 
apprentice's  knowledge  and  skill.  How  did  he 
like  his  business? — did  he  feel  that  he  was  getting 
on  at  all  ? — did  light  begin  to  break  in  upon  him  in 
any  way  ? — did  he  feel  that  he  could  keep  up  with 
•  Williams?  To  these  questions  he  replied,  that  he 
did  like  his  business — that  he  felt  he  was  getting 
on — light  was  breaking  in  upon  him,  even  in  Latin  ; 
he  had  made  up  a  prescription  that  very  day — but 
as  to  keeping  up  with  Williams,  that  was  not  an 
easy  thing.  Williams  could  make  out  a  prescription 
above  a  month  ago.  Williams  was  so  very  clever, 
he  could  do  anything  that  he  liked  ;  he  learned 
without  the  least  trouble,  and  had  such  a  memory 
as  never  was ! 

Such  was  his  report  of  his  fellow-apprentice. 
The  aunts  listened  in  silence,  and  concluded  that  it 
must  be  as  Mr.  Isaacs  had  said;  Williams  was  a 
youth  of  extraordinary  abilities.  They  fcighed  over 
their  nephew,  who  seemed  to  have  but  common 
abilities,  and  were  kinder  to  him  than  ever ;  per- 


THE    TWO   APPRENTICES.  49 

haps  to  compensate,  if  they  could,  for  Nature's 
supposed  unkindness.  But  long  was  the  lecture 
that  they  gave  to  him  on  patience  and  perseverance, 
which,  plodding  on  together,  remove  mountains  of 
all  kinds,  and  make  even  ordinary  abilities  more 
availing  than  the  most  meteor-like  genius. 

"  Well,  and  how  does  Reynolds  go  on  ? "  again 
inquired  Joanna  from  Mr.  Isaacs,  some  twelve  or 
eighteen  months  later. 

*'  Exceedingly  well ! "  was  now  the  reply.  "  He 
has  stability  and  perseverance,  he  will  make  a  good 
tradesman.  He  is  much  more  practical  than  Williams, 
and  thus  much  more  useful."  The  aunts  were  well 
pleased,  and-  now  could  very  well  endure  to  hear 
their  nephew  speak  well  of  his  fellow-apprentice. 

The  Osbornes,  who  had  their  reasons  for  being 
particularly  interested  in  Williams,  saw  his  quick 
abilities,  and  his  attractive  exterior,  with  uncommon 
pleasure.  As  to  Mr.  Isaacs,  he  had  begun  some 
time  ago  to  have  his  own  thoughts  about  the  smart 
apprentice,  and  let  him  now  take  his  own  flights, 
satisfied  to  have  the  more  helpful  services  of  Rey- 
nolds. Isaacs  soon  saw,  what  Mr.  Osborne  seemed 
never  to  find  out,  that  Williams,  unstable  as  water, 
'spite  of  his  natural  brilliant  gifts,  would,  in  the  end, 
excel  in  nothing.  Besides  this,  there  were  slight 
peccadilloes  now  and  then,  a  missing  half-crown  or 
so,  which,  while  he  never  shut  his  own  eyes  to,  and 
always  reproved  in  his  own  way,  he  never  spoke  of  to 
Mr.  or  Mrs.  Osborne,  unwilling  to  distress  them,  as  he 
said  to  himself,  about  the  son  of  poor  Mrs.  Edwards. 

Mr.  Isaacs  had  mentioned  to  Miss  Kendricks  his 
suspicion  of  the  youth's  parentage  ;  and  this  suspi- 
cion was  confirmed  to  them  by  an  accidental  discovery 


60  THE    TWO   APPRENTICES. 

which  their  nephew  made  of  what  seemed  to  him 
the  transposed  name  of  his  companion,  written  in 
his  Prayer-book,  "William  Louis  Edwards;"  and 
which,  on  being  shown  to  him,  he  immediately  tore 
from  the  book,  saying  gaily  that  it  was  only  a  joke. 
But  Williams's  secret  was  safe,  both  with  Misa 
Kendricks  and  Mr.  Isaacs ;  and,  while  the  youth 
did  not  trouble  himself  one  jot  about  either  the  one 
or  the  other,  he  grew  tall  and  good-looking,  and, 
though  he  wore  a  shop-apron,  had  not  at  all  the 
look  of  a  tradesman  about  him. 

Time  went  on :  the  fellow-apprentices  agreed 
remarkably  well  together.  Reynolds  plodded  on 
at  the  quiet  drudgery  of  his  business,  and  Williams 
took  discursive  flights  of  all  kinds.  Now  he  was 
deep  among  gases,  and  now  he  was  up  in  the  clouds 
among  the  fascinations  of  the  circulating  library; 
now  he  dipped  here  and  there  into  the  Materia 
Medica  and  Dr.  Thomas's  Practice  of  Physic;  and 
now  he  laboured  for  three  months  in  learning  to 
play  the  flute.  He  certainly  had  a  variety  of  tastes, 
if  not  of  talents ;  and  the  Osbornes,  good  people  as 
they  were,  saw  this  as  something  quite  remarkable. 
Mrs.  Osborne  was  fascinated  with  his  handsome 
figure  and  gentlemanly  bearing,  with  his  amusing 
conversation,  and  his  variety  of  little  social  talents 
and  accomplishments.  She  contrasted  him,  in  her 
own  rnind,  with  the  more  homely,  unassuming 
Reynolds.  "  Poor  Miss  Kendricks,"  thought  she, 
"  how  proud  they  would  be  to  have  a  nephew  like 
ours ! " 

She  was  the  kindest-hearted  woman  that  ever 
lived;  and  she  never  thought  thus  without  being 
touched  with  compassion  for  the  good,  humbly- 


THE    TWO    APPRENTICES.  •  51 

gifted  youth,  as  she  thought  Reynolds ;  and  many 
a  little  kindness  and  indulgence  did  he  unwittingly 
owe  to  this  sentiment  in  her  heart  towards  him. 

Time  went  on,  and  yet  on.  The  apprentices  had 
each  gone  on  in  their  own  way,  and  were  both 
nearly  nineteen  years  of  age.  Williams  was  now 
above  the  middle  size,  and  seemed  to  have  done 
growing ;  while  Reynolds,  on  the  contrary,  seemed 
as  if  he  had  only  just  begun  to  grow,  and  was,  as 
his  Aunt  Joanna  said,  "  coining  on  famously."  She 
began  to  think,  after  all,  that  her  nephew  would,  in 
his  way,  be  every  bit  as  good-looking  as  Williams. 
He  was  stouter  built,  to  be  sure,  and  would  never 
be  so  tallj  but  there  was  such  a  firm,  manly  air 
about  him,  something  so  honest  and  good  in  his 
countenance — it  was  quite  a  pleasure  to  look  at  him ! 

It  was  now  the  middle  of  winter — a  cold,  sleety 
day,  when  no  customers,  saving  such  as  wanted 
physic,  turned  out  of  doors.  The  shop- door  was 
shut,  the  stove  was  burning  cheerily,  and  the  two 
apprentices  were  standing  together,  looking  over  a 
play-bill,  which  had  just  beet?  thrown  in. 

Players  were  come  to  the  town ;  a  theatre  was 
opened,  and  that  night  the  performances  began. 
"  The  Beaux'  Stratagem  :"  it  was  a  charming  play, 
said  Williams ;  and  read  over  the  list  of  characters 
and  performers  like  a  school-boy  running  over  a 
well- practised  lesson.  There  was  nothing  in  this 
world  that  he  enjoyed  like  the  theatre ;  to  see  a 
play  well  acted  was  the  finest  thing  in  the  world—- 
the next  best  thing  was  to  see  one  badly  acted. 
Oh,  a  tragedy  acted  by  strolling  players,  there  was 
something  quite  racy  about  it !  He  declared  that 
he  should  be  a  great  patron  of  the  theatre.  He 


62  THE   TWO    APPRENTICES. 

would  take  care,  he  said,  and  get  Mr.  Osboine's  con- 
sent to  their  going. 

There  was  no  difficulty  about  that.  Mr.  Osborna 
was  the  most  indulgent  of  masters ;  and  the  two 
young  men  set  off  arm-in-arm,  in  the  highest  spirits, 
intending  to  be  very  critical,  and  yet  very  much 
amused. 

A  great  club-room  at  one  of  the  inns  had  been 
converted  into  a  very  pretty  little  theatre,  which  was 
well  lighted,  and  tolerably  decorated.  Neither  boxes, 
pit,  nor  gallery  had  one  seat  to  spare ;  the  players 
evidently  had  taken  the  little  town  at  the  right 
moment.  Williams,  however,  was  at  first  amazingly 
critical ;  found  unmeasured  fault,  and  ridiculed 
everything.  He  had  seen,  he  said,  in  his  time,  the 
finest  theatres  in  London,  and  he  knew  what  good 
acting  was,  too.  .  The  acting,  however,  pleased  him  ; 
above  all  things,  the  acting  of  Miss  Jessie  Banner- 
man,  who  performed  the  character  of  Dorinda.  He 
declared  that  she  was  a  goddess,  an  angel ;  so  young, 
not  above  sixteen ;  so  divinely  beautiful !  she  was 
equal  to  any  actress  )h  genteel  comedy  that  he  had 
ever  seen.  He  must  know  something  about  her ! 
He  was  very  fond  of  players,  he  said ;  loved,  of  all 
things,  to  have  the  entree  of  the  green-room  ;  had 
a  vast  fancy  for  acting  himself ;  and  ended  by  pro- 
testing that  he  was  deeply  in  love  with  that  girl, 
and  would  make  her  acquaintance,  or  know  the 
reason  why. 


JESSIE'S   ACQUAINTANCE    MADE.  63 

CHAPTER  IV. 

JESSIE'S    ACQUAINTANCE    MADE. 

WE  must  now  pay  a  visit  to  the  house  of  a  clog 
and  patten-maker,  and,  without  using  any  ceremony, 
enter  the  little  parlour,  which  is  but  very  humbly 
furnished,  with  its  home-made  listing  carpet  hardly 
covering  its  brick  floor,  and  its  furniture  of  blue  and 
white  check.  In  the  middle  of  the  room  stands  a 
round  table,  covered  with  a  coarse  huckaback  table- 
cloth, on  which  plates,  knives  and  forks,  and  an 
earthenware  salt-cellar,  with  bread  and  cheese,  give 
intimation  that  supper  is  at  hand.  The  homely 
furniture,  however,  did  not  cause  a  moment's 
uneasiness  to  the  persons  who  were  there,  and 
whom  we  may  as  well  introduce  to  the  reader. 
First  of  all,  a  little  old  woman,  in  a  night-cap  not 
remarkably  clean,  and  a  pink  bed-gown,  who  sat 
bending  over  the  little  fire-place  set  in  Dutch  tile, 
cooking  on  the  fire  a  quantity  of  tripe,  in  a  sauce- 
pan rather  too  small  for  the -purpose,  while  within 
the  fender  stood  dishes  and  plates  to  warm.  This 
old  woman,  known  in  the  theatrical  corps  as 
Mrs.  Bellamy,  though  she  never  acted,  seemed  so 
absorbed  by  her  occupation  as  to  take  no  notice 
whatever  of  a  young  couple  who  sat  together,  in 
very  amicable  proximity,  on  the  sofa.  These  were 
Jessie  Bannerman,  the  fair  prima  donna  of  the  com- 
pany, and  our  acquaintance,  Williams,  who  was  now 
paying  by  no  means  his  first  visit  to  the  inmates 
of  the  patten-maker's  parlour.  Williams  was  very 
handsomely  dressed  in  his  Sunday  clothes,  for  it 
was  Sunday  evening ;  whilst  the  young  lady,  a 


64.  JESSIE'S  ACQUAINTANCE  MADE. 

slight,  delicate  young  creature,  was  decidedly  en 
deshabille,  a  costume  which,  although  it  bore  uneqm- 
rocal  marks  of  having  been  supplied  by  a  scanty 
purse,  was  not  unbecoming  to  her  remarkably  inte- 
resting appearance. 

The  youth  held  both  her  hands  in  his,  and  gazed 
with  almost  devotion  into  her  face.  She  seemed  to 
have  been  weeping,  but  a  faint  smile,  like  April 
sunshine,  passed  at  that  moment  over  her  face,  and 
she  replied,  in  answer  to  some  remark  of  his,  "  Oh, 
no,  the  dear  old  creature,  she  is  very  deaf;  she 
hears  nothing  we  say,  and  if  she  did,  she  would  not 
interrupt  us.  Ah,  shv  is  a  good  creature ! "  ex- 
claimed she,  snatching  away  her  hands  from  their 
confinement ;  and  starting  up  to  the  old  woman's 
side,  she  put  them  on  her  shoulder;  and  spoke  in 
her  ear,  but  not  loudly,  "  I  have  been  telling  him 
how  good  you  are  to  me,  and  how  much  I  love 
you,"  added  she,  and  kissed  the  old  woman's 
wrinkled  cheek.  The  old  woman  understood  the 
action,  if  not  the  words,  and  gave  several  little, 
short  nods,  without  turning  her  head,  or  apparently 
lifting  her  eyes  from  the  saucepan. 

The  young  girl  sat  down  again,  and  continued, 
"  If  it  were  not  for  her,  my  life  would  be  worse 
than  that  of  a  galley-slave.  She  is  not  as  poor  as 
she  seems,  and  has  managed  to  make  herself  of 
consequence  to  the  company ;  and  Mr.  Maxwell, 
the  manager,  consults  her  in  everything.  He  hates 
her,  however,  for  all  that,  and  they  quarrel  dread- 
fully." 

Whilst  these  few  words  passed,  the  old  woman 
had  dished  her  tripe,  which  she  covered  up  with  a 
basin,  and  set  within  the  fender,  while  she  went  out 


JESSIE'S    ACQUAINTANCE    MADE.  63 

for  ale  in  a  small  jug.  When  she  returned,  and 
showed  what  her  errand  had  been,  the  youth  started 
up,  exclaiming  against  his  own  forgetfulness,  and 
took  from  the  pocket  of  his  great-coat,  which  he 
had  laid  upon  the  floor,  two  bottles  of  wine,  which 
he  said  he  had  brought  for  them,  and  which  he 
believed  would  prove  good.  The  old  and  the  young 
lady  both  expressed  surprise,  and  then  they  all 
three  sat  down  to  supper  with  the  most  apparent 
cordiality.  The  old  woman's  tripe  was  excellent, 
and  well  cooked,  and  Williams's  wine  was  as  good 
as  need  be  drunk ;  but  here,  before  it  could  be 
drunk,  there  occurred  a  little  difficulty.  The  wine- 
glasses of  the  patten-maker's  wife  were  locked  up 
in  a  corner- cupboard  of  this  room  ;  she  would  not 
entrust  her  keys  to  her  lodgers,  nor  would  they 
admit  her  into  the  room,  lest  she  should  recognise 
Mr.  Osborne's  apprentice,  whom  she  well  knew,  in 
the  young  visitor  who  usually  came  in  so  muffled 
up  and  disguised  that  he  passed  for  one  of  the 
players  themselves.  Two  little  china  cups,  there- 
fore, that  stood  on  the  mantel-piece  as  ornaments, 
were  substituted  instead  ;  the  old  woman  having  one 
to  herself,  and  Jessie  and  her  lover — for  lover  he  was 
— the  other  between  them.  After  supper,  which 
all  three  had  seemed  greatly  to  enjoy,  the  old 
•woman  swept  up  the  hearth,  cleared  away  the 
supper-things,  and  sticking  the  corks  into  tho 
bottles,  lest,  as  she  said,  such  good  wine  should 
spoil,  seated  herself  in  a  low-armed  chair,  and, 
throwing  her  apron  over  her  face,  lay  back  as  if  to 
sleep;  whilst  Jessie  and  the  young  man  resumed 
their  seats  on  the  sofa,  and  shortly  afterwards  fell 
into  deep  conversation. 


66  JESSIE'S  ACQUAINTANCE  HADE. 

"  And  must  I  tell  you  all  ? "  asked  she. 

"  All,  every  incident  from  your  earliest  memory," 
returned  he,  passionately.  "  Whatever  concerns 
you,  interests  me." 

Jessie  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  and  was  silent  for  a 
few  moments. 

"  I  have  heard  her  say,"  at  length  she  began, 
looking  towards  the  old  woman  in  the  chair  opposite, 
"  that  my  mother  was  the  most  beautiful  of  women, 
and  perhaps,  also,  the  most  unfortunate.  She  was 
the  daughter  of  a  village  schoolmaster,  a  man  pos- 
sessed of  some  little  property  ;  and  she,"  said  she, 
again  indicating  the  old  woman  opposite,  "  \vas,  1 
fancy,  his  wife,  and  consequently  is  my  grand- 
mother; but  that  she  never  will  confess,  although 
I  have  besought  her  on  my  knees.  My  mother  was 
loved,  or  rather  courted,  by  a  rich  gentleman.  She 
loved  him — oh,  too  well  :  he  deserted  her,  and 
her  father,  who  was  a  very  severe,  although  in 
his  way  a  very  religious  man,  never  would  forgive 
her  error.  He  turned  her,  one  wild  autumn  night, 
out  of  doors.  Jt  thundered  and  lightened,  and 
was  a  night  on  which  to  lose  one's  senses,  or  else 
to  do  some  horrid  deed.  Her  mother  prayed  the 
father  to  relent,  and  to  open  the  door;  for  she 
stayed  wandering  about  the  house  till  long  after 
midnight,  begging  and  praying  that  he  would  not 
be  so  hard-hearted  and  so  cruel — but  it  was  all  in 
vain !  He  was  one  of  those  men  who  think 
that  it  was  the  woman  only  who  fell ;  he  thought 
that  the  man  was  a  superior  being,  whose  place 
in  creation  was  to  domineer  over  woman,  and 
punish  her,  and  subject  her  as  much  as  he  could. 
I*  was  a  sort  of  virtue  in  his  eyes,  and  so  he 


ACQUAINTANCE    MADE.  67 

neither  would  listen  to  the  prayers  of  his  wife  nor 
daughter." 

"  What  a  monster  he  was  !  "  exclaimed  Williams, 
in  a  very  audible  voice. 

The  old  woman  put  her  apron  from  her  head,  and 
said  sharply  to  him,  "  It  is  fine  talking,  young  man ! 
but  you  are  all  tyrants  by  nature — every  one  of  you 
-~-for  all  you  look  so  mild  and  gentle  !  Every  one 
of  you  !  "  added  she,  again  throwing  her  apron  over 
her  head. 

"  I  thought  that  she  was  deaf !  "  exclaimed  Wil- 
liams, amazed,  and  almost  terrified. 

"  And  so  she  is,"  returned  Jessie,  "  but  you  are 
so  violent." 

"  Well,  go  on,"  said  he ;  "  your  story  affects  me." 

"  My  grandfather,"  continued  she,  "  would  not  go 
to  bed  till  long  nfter  my  mother's  voice  had  ceased 
outside,  and  then  he  took  the  key  of  the  house- door 
and  put  it  under  his  pillow,  to  prevent  his  wife  going 
out.  She  was  very  much  afraid  of  her  husband,  so 
she  waited  till  she  heard  him  snoring  in  bed,  and 
then  she  got  out  at  the  kitchen- window ;  but  no- 
where could  she  find  her  daughter.  She  wandered 
about  all  day,  and  went  into  the  neighbours'  barns, 
and  up  and  down  the  river-side ;  but  she  found 
no  traces,  nor  had  anybody  in  the  village  seen 
her.  Towards  evening,  however,  she  met  a  wagoner 
coming  with  his  team  towards  the  village,  who  had 
been  out  with  barley  to  a  neighbouring  town  ;  and 
from'  him  she  learnt  that,  about  three  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  he  had  overtaken  a  young  woman,  who  waa 
walking  alone  on  the  road,  and  who  seemed  very 
much  distressed.  She  begged  him,  he  said,  to  give 
her  a  lift  in  his  wagon,  which  he  did  ;  be  had  also 
4 


58  JESSIE'S  ACQUAINTANCE  MADE. 

given  her  part  of  the  refreshment  which  lie  had 
with  him  for  himself,  and  had  spoken  a  good  word 
for  her  to  the  woman  of  the  house  where  he  put 
up ;  but  that,  after  she  left  his  wagon,  which  was 
at  the  town's  end,  he  had  seen  no  more  of  her,  nor 
could  he  tell  what  it  was  her  intention  to  do,  or 
•where  to  go.  My  grandmother  was  so  affected  by 
this  mark  of  kindness,  especially,  as  she  said,  in  a 
man,  that  she  thought  within  herself,  what  could 
she  give  him  in  return.  She  felt  in  her  pocket,  but 
money  she  had  none,  excepting  a  crooked  Queen 
Anne's  sixpence  with  a  hole  through  it,  which  she 
had  kept  many  years.  This  she  gave  to  him,  and 
begged  of  him  to  keep  for  her  sake ;  and  for  her 
sake,  also,  to  be  kind  to  poor  women  whenever  he 
met  with  them,  and  to  take  her  blessing  for  the 
kindness  he  had  shown  her  daughter.  Instead  of 
going  home,  she  at  once  turned  herself  round,  and 
walked  through  the  night  back  to  the  town,  where 
she  arrived  at  daybreak.  The  woman  of  the 
public-house  could  give  no  information  respecting 
her  daughter,  so  at  night  she  set  off  home  again." 

"  She  spent  that  day,  and  the  next,  and  the  next 
after  that,"  said  the  old  woman  rapidly,  interrupting 
her,  and  throwing  the  apron  from  her  face,  and 
sitting  up  in  the  chair;  "  three  whole  days  she 
spent  in  searching  for  her  daughter !  It  was  a 
large  town,  and  a  wicked  town,  and  nothing  but  sin, 
and  misery,  and  sorrow,  did  she  meet  with  every- 
where, wherever  she  sought  for  her  poor  outcast! 
But  she  did  not  find  her !  Many  a  fair  young 
creature  she  saw,  as  desolate  as  her  own  child  ;  but 
her  own  child  she  found  not,  and,  with  a  bleeding, 
downcast  heart,  and  a  weary  body,  she  retraced  her 


JESSIE'S    ACQUAINTANCE    MADE.  59 

steps  homeward.  Her  husband,  as  she  came  hack, 
Bat  among  the  little  boys  in  the  school  just  as  if 
nothing  had  happened,  and  heard  them  read  about 
Mary  Magdalene,  in  the  Bible,  that  our  Lord  and 
Saviour  Jesus  Christ  himself  had  mercy  on,  yet  he 
never  had  pity  on  his  own  flesh  and  blood  !  If  I 
were  to  tell  you,"  continued  she,  "  of  the  tears, 
and  the  heart-aches,  and  the  prayers  of  that  mother, 
all  in  secret  between  her  Maker  and  herself,  you, 
that  are  young,  would  maybe  not  believe  me,  so  I 
pass  them  all  over.  In  a  winter  or  two  afterwards, 
her  husband  got  a  rheumatic  fever,  and  she  then 
had  to  wait  on  him  night  and  day :  he  was  as  help- 
less as  a  child,  and  was  cross,  and  out  of  humour 
with  her,  and  with  himself,  too.  She  had  a  weary 
life  of  it.  The  parson  came  to  see  him,  and 
preachers  of  all  sorts,  from  far  and  near;  for  he 
was  reckoned  a  religious  man ;  and  beinir  parish 
schoolmaster,  and  a  man  of  property  besides,  folks 
thought  much  of  him,  and  his  wife  got  them  to  talk 
to  him  of  his  daughter,  now  that  he  was  sick  and 
helpless,  and  turn  his  heart  towards  her.  if  they 
could.  But  he  was  as  hard  as  iron,  and  he  would 
not  even  have  her  mentioned  in  his  prayers.  Well, 
it  pleased  God  to  afflict  him  in  many  ways,  and  he 
had  tits  and  spasms,  end  was  speechless  for  months. 

'•  '  Stephen,'  said  his  wife  to  him,  one  night, 
'  God  is  punishing  you  for  your  hardness  to  poor 
Alary.  You  deserve  it  !  and  I  hope  he  will  never 
take  his  hand  off  you  till  you  've  forgiven  her,  and 
acted  as  a  Christian  should  do  ! ' 

'"  He  had  not  spoken  for  months  and  months,  and 
you  may  think  what  was  her  surprise  when  he  lifts 
himself  slowly  up  in  bed,  and  fixing  his  hollow 


60  JESSIE'S  ACQUAINTANCE  MADE. 

eyes  on  her,  says,  '  He  has  punished  me — punished 
me  severely.  I  forgive  her,  and  may  God  Almighty 
forgive  us  both  ! '  With  these  words  he  dropped 
back  on  the  pillow,  and  his  poor  wife  was  so  over- 
come by  what  she  heard,  all  so  unexpectedly,  that 
she  sank  down  as  if  she  had  been  smitten,  and  when 
she  had  strength  to  rise  again — lie  was  a  corpse !  A 
bitter  feeling  now  came  over  her  towards  herself: 
she  had  been  angry  with  him — she  had  done  her 
duty  to  him  only  as  duty,  not  as  love.  What  would 
she  not  have  given  then  for  one  week,  one  hour,  of 
his  past  life  !  Ah,  children,  children !  "  said  she, 
addressing  the  two  before  her,  "  never  grieve  those 
you  love ;  never  lose  an  opportunity  of  doing  a 
kindness  to  those  you  love  ;  never  give  way  to 
bitterness  and  hardness,  else  you  will  lay  up  a 
punishment  for  yourselves  which  will  pursue  you  as 
with  a  whip  of  scorpions  !"  . 

A  silence  of  a  few  minutes  ensued.  Jessie  had 
thrown  herself  back  in  a  corner  of  the  sofa,  and 
Williams  sat  staring  at  the  old  woman,  who  now, 
as  if  with  all  her  faculties  awake,  continued  : — 

"  Some  indistinct  rumonr  reached  the  mother, 
some  time  after  her  husband's  death,  that  her 
daughter  was  in  London ;  so  she  turned  all  the 
little  property  that  was  left  into  money,  and  to 
London  she  went.  She  went  to  London  to  find  her 
daughter.  And  how  was  her  daughter  to  be  found 
among  the  thousands  of  other  women's  daughters, 
that  were  outcasts  in  society — women  with  beauty, 
talents,  affections,  all  trampled  under  foot,  viler  than 
the  very  mud  of  the  streets !  She  went  out  on 
the  evenings  of  summer  days,  when  the  birds  of 
heaven  were  singing,  and  the  dew  lay  as  pure  as 


JESSIE'S    ACQUAINTANCE    MADE.  Cl 

angels'  thoughts  on  the  grassy  fields ;  and  what  did 
she  meet  ?  Women  that  the  rich  and  pampered 
daughters  of  untempted  virtue  loathed  ;  but  she  met 
not  with  her  daughter.  She  went  out  on  cold,  deso- 
late, pinching  nights  of  winter,  when  happy  fami- 
lies sat  round  happy  hearths — fathers,  and  mothers, 
and  little  children,  and  blessed  God  that  they  lived 
in  a  Christian  land,  where  all  misery  was  cared  for  ; 
and  what  did  she  still  meet?  Poor,  unfortunate 
women  again — creatures  that  God  had  made  a  little 
lower  than  the  angels ;  for  what  ?  To  be  the  prey 
of  the  vilest  passions  of  man;  to  be  despised, 
scorned,  pointed  at,  trampled  on  ;  to  be  miserable 
and  outcast !  These  she  saw,  winter  and  summer, 
alike ;  these,  beauty  and  misery,  going  hand-in-hand 
down  to  the  pit !  Yes,  young  man,"  said  she,  lifting 
up  an  admonitory  finger,  "  such  as  you  it  is  that  do 
this  work  of  death  and  the  devil  !  and  think  not 
that  you  shall  come  here,  paying  your  flattering, 
false  attentions  to  that  old  woman's  grand -daughter 
unwatched  and  unprevented  ! " 

"  Upon  my  soul,"  said  the  young  man,  quite 
taken  by  surprise,  "  I  am  sincere  as  the  very  sun 
in  heaven !  Only,  you  see,  as  yet,  I  am  in  tram- 
mels ;  I  am  not  my  own  master." 

"  Enough  !  enough  !  "  said  the  old  woman.  "  But 
I  have  not  yet  done.  You  asked  for  Jessie's  history, 
and  we  are  not  yet  come  to  it.  I  had  been  out 
one  night  to  get  a  bit  of  butcher's-meat ;  I  had  not 
had  a  bit  for  months,  and  somehow  or  other  the 
fancy  took  me  to  have  a  bit ;  so  I  went  out  that 
Saturday  night,  and  had  not  gone  far,  before  I  was 
stopped  by  a  crowd  at  the  door  of  a  house,  where 
they  said  that  a  man  was  ill-using  a  woman.  '  It's 


62  JESSIE'S  ACQUAINTANCE  MAIE. 

only  his  wife  ! '  said  somebody  near  me ;  just  as  if 
he  had  said,  it 's  only  his  dog.  These  were  things 
that  I  felt  in  my  very  soul ;  so  I  rushed  into  the 
house,  just  as  the  brutal  husband,  mad  with  liquor 
and  cruelty,  and  with  blood  upon  his  clothes,  threw 
himself  out  of  the  door  into  the  middle  of  the  crowd, 
which,  'spite  of  the  attempts  to  seize  upon  him,  he 
struck  off  right  and  left,  and  made  his  escape.  A 
crowd  of  people  beside  me  had  rushed  into  th& 
house,  and  up-stairs  where  the  woman  was,  whose 
blood  we  met,  trickling  down-stairs,  before  we 
reached  th%  top.  She  was  bleeding  from  face,  and 
neck,  and  arms,  where  she  had  many  great  gashes. 
She  looked  as  if  she  were  already  dead,  and  a  little 
child,  not  six  months  old,  lay  crying  on  the  miser- 
able bed  beside  her.  The  sight  of  the  woman 
caused  a  cry  of  indignation  and  horror  in  the  people, 
and  half  of  them  turned  back  to  overtake  and  secure 
the  man  whom  they  now  regarded  as  a  murderer. 
From  a  feeling  of  pity  which  wrung  my  very  heart, 
I  took  up  the  child  in  my  arms  ;  it  looked  into  my 
face,  and  smiled  !  It  was  she!  "  said  the  old  woman, 
pointing  to  Jessie,  who  now,  pale  and  excited,  was 
weeping  again. 

"  They  took  the  woman  to  the  hospital,"  con- 
tinued she.  "  She  was  one  of  a  travelling  company 
of  comedians  and  horse-riders ;  her  husband  and 
she  acted  the  principal  parts:  she  had  been,  and 
still  was,  very  beautiful.  She  was  the  school- 
master's daughter  —  the  daughter  of  that  mother 
who  had  sought  her  so  long  and  so  wearily  !  She 
did  not  die.  There  were  two  children  :  the  infant, 
and  a  girl  of  seven  years  old,  a  young  creature  that 
played  night  after  night,  and  was  the  great  attrac- 


JESSIE'S    ACQUAINTANCE    MADE.  63 

tion  of  the  company.  She  was  ill,  and  it  had  been 
about  her  acting  that  the  parents  had  quarrelled 
that  night.  She  was  a  wonderful  child.  Oh,  why 
are  such  gifts  as  hers  given,  when  they  can  lead  but 
to  misery  and  ruin !  The  little  Fanny  danced  on 
the  tight-rope  night  after  night,  and  performed  the 
most  wonderful  feats  of  horsemanship  as  the  Flying 
Circassian;  and  acted  and  sung  to  the  delight  of 
crowds  of  thoughtless,  admiring  people.  She  played", 
and  danced,  and  rode,  and  grew  weaker  and  weaker 
day  by  day ;  but  there  was  no  pity  either  for  her 
or  the  infant,  which,  as  soon  as  it  coul^  walk,  was 
made  to  ride  and  dance,  and  which  promised  to  be 
as  great  a  prodigy  as  her  sister.  When  the  mother 
was  dead,  I  joined  myself  to  the  company.  The 
father  hated  me,  but  he  could  not  get  rid  of  me. 
I  stayed,  because  there  was  no  law  to  take  them 
forcibly  from  the  father.  After  I  had  been  with 
the  company  some  years,  things  mended.  All  were 
not  as  bad  as  he ;  poor  they  all  were,  but  many  of 
them  had  kind  hearts,  and  there  were  those  with  us 
who  would  take  our  parts ;  and  besides,  as  Fanny's 
health  mended  under  my  care,  the  father  no  longer 
tried  to  make  my  life  intolerable ;  besides  which,  a 
cold  which  I  took  made  me  deaf,  so  that  I  could  not 
hear  him.  He  married  again,  and  then  I  took  the 
children  to  myself;  the  travelling  life  was  not  un- 
pleasant to  me,  and  Fanny  was  a  very  angel." 

"And  where  is  Fanny?"  asked  Williams.  The 
old  woman  made  no  reply. 

Jessie  took  the  handkerchief  from  her  face,  and 
laying  her  hand  on  his  arm,  said  solemnly,  "  Fanny 
is  dead ! " 

He  looked  shocked,   and   she  continued,    "Had 


64  JESSIE'S  ACQUAINTANCE  MADE. 

you  known  Fanny,  you  would  never  have  loved 
me.  I  am  no  more  to  be  compared  to  her,  than 
the  moon  to  the  sun.  She  was  nineteen  when  she 
died  ;  I  was  then  twelve.  She"  said  she,  pointing 
to  the  old  woman,  "  had  much  more  reason  to  love 
Fanny  than  me.  She  was  much  handsomer  than 
me,  and  was  so  witty  and  merry !  Ill  as  she  was, 
it  never  cast  her  down ;  and  her  laugh !  Oh,  I 
remember  it  now  !  I  never  heard  a  laugh  like  it — 
so  sweet,  so  joyous,  so  musical !  My  father  used  to 
say  that  her  laugh  would  make  her  fortune  ;  but 
she  took  cold  one  night  at  the  theatre,  and  in  three 
days  she  died  !  They  think  of  making  another 
Fanny  of  me,"  said  she ;  "  but  it  will  not  do.  My 
father  is  disappointed  in  me.  I  am  not  as  brilliant 
as  my  sister.  My  life  is  not  happy — not  at  all 
happy,"  said  she,  clasping  her  hands,  and  bursting 
into  a  passion  of  tears. 

"  Adorable  girl ! "  said  Williams,  quite  beside 
himself  with  love  and  pity,  and  throwing  himself 
on  one  knee  before  her.  "  My  whole  life  shall  be 
devoted  to  making  your  life  happy  !  " 

The  fair  Jessie  bowed  her  face,  and  wept  upon 
his  shoulder. 

"  Hey-day !  "  said  the  old  woman,  starting  up  from 
her  chair,  "  what  nonsense  is  all  this  !  I  know  what 
it  means  when  men  talk  of  life-long  devotion.  And 
what  are  you,  young  man  ?  Can  you  rescue  her 
from  the  life  of  misery  that  lies  before  her  ?  " 

"  I  am  one  who  love  her  better  than  life,"  said 
Williams,  starting  to  his  feet,  and  facing  the  old 
woman  with  quite  a  theatrical  air.  "  I  love  her, 
and,  were  I  but  free,  I  would  marry  her  to-morrow." 

"  Fine  talking ! "    said  the   old  woman,  with  a 


JESSIE'S    ACQUAINTANCE   MADE.  Cfi 

sneer ;  "if  I  were  but  free !  that  is  always  the 
way!  If  I  were  but  free,  indeed  i  Why,  when 
you  are  free,  your  mind  will  have  changed.  Then, 
then  i  ah,  I  know  you  men !  You  are  a  pack  of 
designing,  selfish  knaves,  and  I  '11  have  none  of  you  ! 
I  '11  take  care  of  Jessie  Bannerman,  if  she  cannot 
take  care  of  herself;  and  so  you  had  better  take 
your  leave,  for  the  decent  people  at  your  house 
must  have  been  in  bed  these  two  or. three  hours." 

"  By  Jove,  and  so  they  will ! "  exclaimed  Wil- 
liams, looking  at  his  watch,  and  horrified  to  see  that 
it  was  past  two  o'clock. 

'*  I  shall  never  get  in  to-night,"  said  he,  almost 
dolefully.  "  For  Heaven's  sake  let  me  sleep  where 
I  am.  I  will  lie  on  the  sofa,  or  anywhere,  and 
early  in  the  morning  I  will  be  gone." 

The  old  woman  was  again  deaf;  and  it  was  only 
by  his  forcibly  taking  possession  of  the  sofa,  that  she 
seemed  to  understand  him.  Jessie  laughed  as  merrily 
and  as  musically,  Williams  thought,  as  Fanny  could 
have  done,  and  applauded  the  idea.  But  the  old 
woman  was  inexorable,  and  turned  him  literally  out 
of  doors. 

Well  was  it  for  him  that,  in  that  quiet  town, 
every  soul,  excepting  the  watchman,  was  in  bed. 
The  night  was  fine  and  starlight,  and  avoiding  the 
watchman,  who  made  himself  perceptible  by  his 
cry,  he  walked  through  the  town  right  into  the 
country,  which  was  not  inconvenient  to  him,  as  he 
had  excused  his  yesterday's  absence  on  the  plea  of 
spending  the  afternoon  with  some  friends  in  the 
country  ;  and  the  next  morning  he  entered  Mr.  Os- 
borne's  parlour  just  as  they  were  about  to  sit  down  to 
breakfast,  nobody  suspecting  one  word  of  the  real  truth. 


66  A  SPOKE    IN    THE   WHEEL. 

CHAPTER  V. 

A    SPOKE   IN    THE    WHEEL. 

Mr  readers  may  imagine  how  confusing  must 
have  been  all  the  inquiries  which  assailed  the  young 
man  from  Mrs.  Oshorne  during  breakfast.  "  Well, 
and  how  were  the  Yates's?  Js  he  better?  and  is 
John  come  from  Birmingham  ?  And  what  news 
have  they  from  Mrs.  Benjamin  ?  Are  the  children 
better  ?  And  has  Jenny  had  the  measles  ?  " 

Williams  was  not  a  young  man  to  be  easily  dumb- 
foundered  ;  his  replies  really  were  all  so  straight- 
forward, that  nobody  could  have  had  the  slightest 
suspicion  of  all  not  being  quite  straightforward  re- 
garding them.  All  this,  however,  was  nothing  to 
the  difficulty  he  found  after  breakfast,  when  he  was 
told  to  assist  in  the  putting  up  of  a  large  order  for  a 
country-shop.  What  room  had  he  in  his  mind  for 
6  Ibs.  of  yellow  ochre,  and  2  Ibs.  of  camomile  flowers, 
and  glue,  and  lamp-black,  and  syrup  of  squills,  and 
opium  ? 

"  What,  are  not  those  things  put  up  yet  ?  "  asked 
Mr.  Osborne,  looking  down  into  the  lower  ware- 
house, as  he  saw  Williams  by  lamplight,  towards 
dinner-time,  weighing  out  whitening,  which  he  knew 
came  fourth  in  a  list  of  seven-and-twenty  articles. 
No,  indeed  '.  they  were  not  put  up.  Williams  had 
thought  of  nothing  all  the  morning  but  the  fair  Jessie, 
and  her  sad  family  history,  and  her  deaf  old  grand- 
mother, who,  after  all,  was  not  deaf.  He  went  over 
the  history,  incident  by  incident,  and  asked  himself 
many  questions.  Who,  then,  was  Jessie's  father? 
Was  it  that  Mr.  Maxwell,  the  manager,  with  whom. 


A    SPOKE    IN    THE    WHEEL.  67 

she  had  said  that  the  old  woman  often  quarrelled  ? 
and  if  so,  why  was  she  called  Bannennan  ?  Was 
that  her  mother's  name  ?  and  if  so,  why,  then,  was 
the  old  woman  called  Bellamy  ?  He  could  not 
understand  these  things.  One  thing,  however,  he 
could  very  well  understand,  and  that  was,  that  he 
•was  desperately  in  love  ;  should  never  love  anybody 
else  as  long  as  he  lived ;  and  if  he  were  but  out  of 
his  time  would  marry  her  instantly,  even  if  he  had 
to  starve  all  the  rest  of  his  life  for  it. 

What  an  awkward  thing  it  is  for  a  young  man 
violently  in  love,  and  a  little  headstrong  into  the 
bargain,  not  to  be  out  of  his  time — not  to  be  at 
liberty  to  do  just  as  he  likes  !  He  grew  c^uite 
desperate  there,  down  among  the  whitening  casks 
and  the  hogsheads  of  oil  and  vinegar.  He  remem- 
bered her  tears,  and  that  she  had  declared  herself  to 
be  unhappy ;  and  that  she  had  to  display  all  her 
charms  and  her  powers  of  pleasing  every  night  to 
worthless  crowds,  whilst  he  was  dying  but  for  one 
glance  of  hers.  And  then,  how  did  he  know  but 
that  some  young  fellow  who  was  "  out  of  his  time," 
and  his  own  master,  might  not  fall  in  love  with  her, 
and  carry  her  off  at  once  !  What  so  likely  ?  He 
then  laid  a  thousand  impossible  plans,  which  at  the 
moment  he  vowed  to  execute.  He  would  jom  the 
company,  and  travel  with  her.  He  would  run  off 
with  her,  and  get  married  ;  his  uncle  and  aunt 
would  be  angry,  he  knew,  but  in  the  end  they 
would  forgive  him.  Jessie  should  throw  herself  at 
their  fret ;  they  could  never  withstand  her  beauty 
and  her  tears.  In  the  midst  of  this  scene  he  was 
woke  to  reality  and  a  dinner  of  boiled  beef  and 
turnips.  Poor  Williams !  he  had  no  appetite,  and 


68  A    SPOKE   IN   THB   WHEEL. 

he  looked  as  woe-begone  as  it  was  possible  foi  any 
young  apprentice  to  look  who  was  over  head  and 
ears  in  love.  He  was  not  well,  he  said ;  he  was,  to 
use  the  words  of  a  country  swain  in  love,  "  hot  and 
dry,  like,  with  a  pain  in  his  side,  like ;"  and  he  pre- 
scribed for  himself  a  walk  in  the  fresh  air,  which 
Mr.  Osborne  freely  permitted  to  him.  deputing 
Reynolds  to  finish  his  work  below. 

Williams  dressed  himself  with  great  care,  and  putting 
on  his  great-coat,  made  the  best  of  his  way  to  the 
clog  and  patten-maker's,  not  failing  to  see,  as  he 
passed  along  the  streets,  on  every  blank  wall  and 
every  projecting  house-corner,  the  name  of  his  fair 
one  in  the  play- bills  for  the  night,  "  To  be  performed 
this  evening,  the  Fair  Quaker  of  Deal,  the  part  of 
the  Fair  Quaker,  by  Miss  Jessie  Bannerman."  Jessie 
was  the  attraction  of  the  company — the  whole  town 
acknowledged  it.  The  sight  of  her  name  added  to 
his  impatience ;  he  reached  the  house,  and  thinking 
neither  of  the  patten-maker  nor  his  wife,  rushed 
through  the  kitchen,  where  they  sat  at  tea,  without 
any  precaution  of  concealment,  and  knocking  hur- 
riedly at  the  parlour-door,  entered  without  waiting 
for  permission  from  within. 

44  Why,  that 's  Osborne 's  smart  apprentice,  for 
suri',"^  exclaimed  the  patten-maker's  wife  ;  "  so,  he  'a 
smitten,  is  he,  with  that  young  player-wench  ?  " 

44  Why,  how  many  young  chaps  are  there  after 
her  ?  "  asked  her  husband. 

"  Half-a-score,"  said  the  wife,  "  at  least ; "  and 
began  counting  them  on  her  fingers. 

Williams'*  entrance  produced  quite  a  sensation 
among  the  three  persons  in  the  room.  The  old 
Woman,  who  sat  with  her  spectacles  on,  sewing 


A    SPOKE    IN     THE    WIIEEI,.  C9 

white  muslin  cuffs  into  the  slate-coloured  stuff  gown 
which  was  evidently  to  be  the  dress  of  the  Fair 
Quaker  of  Deal,  knocked  down  an  old  pasteboard 
box  which  held  her  store  of  sewing  materials.  Jessie, 
who  stood  en  deshabille,  as  yesterday,  with  her  little 
Quaker's  cap  in  her  hand,  turned  first  red  and  then 
pale  at  the  sight  of  him ;  and  a  tall  young  man,  of 
perhaps  two-and-twenty,  who  was  at  that  moment 
presenting  her  with  a  bouquet  of  splendid  green- 
house flowers,  started  back  a  step  or  two,  as  if  a 
snake  had  stung  him,  and  then  stood,  with  the  flowers 
in  his  hand,  and  a  look  of  defiance  in  his  eye,  at  the 
unexpected  rival,  whom  the  lady  might  be  supposed 
to  favour  from  her  changing  colour.  A  glance  told 
all  this  ;  and  Williams,  on  his  part,  looked  as  much 
taken  by  surprise  as  any  of  them.  Here  had  he 
flown  on  the  wings  of  love  and  impatience  only  to 
find  a  rival — a  favoured  rival  his  jealousy  whispered, 
and  that  in  the  handsome  person  of  Tom  Bassett,  a 
young  man  of  family — an  articled  clerk  of  the  first 
lawyer  in  the  place ; — he  was  in  love  with  her  too — 
it  was  death  and  destruction ! 

"  Shall  you  see  me  to-night  as  the  Fair  Quaker  ?  " 
asked  Jessie,  with  one  of  her  sweetest  smiles. 

"  Most  certainly  I  shall,"  said  Williams,-  who,  in 
the  face  of  his  rival,  felt  that  it  must  be  so. 

She  showed  him  the  cap,  and  pointed  to  the  dress 
which  the  old  woman  was  engaged  upon  for  the 
character ;  and  while  he  turned  to  speak  to  th%  old 
woman,  who  seemed  now  deafer  than  ever,  Tom 
Bassett  again  presented  his  flowers,  which  were 
graciously  accepted.  Williams  did  not  wait  for  the 
old  woman's  answer,  but  was,  the  same  moment, 
at  Jessie's  side  again,  looking  daggers  at  the  frce-and- 

5 


<TO  A   SPOKE   IN   THE   WHEEt. 

easy  young  lawyer.  With  the  air  of  a  queen,  Jessie 
motioned  the  two  to  be  seated.  Bassett  laughed 
and  talked  with  the  most  provoking  ease  and  con- 
fidence. In  his  eyes,  evidently,  Williams  was  a 
rival  not  worth  noticing.  Jessie  laughed  at  his  jokes, 
and  seemed  not  to  trouble  herself  about  the  other. 
Jt  was  mortifying,  it  was  provoking,  it  was  enough 
to  make  a  saint  swear,  thought  Williams.  "  Here  I 
sit,"  thought  he  to  himself,  "  like  a  fool,  without 
a  word  to  say  for  myself!  "  If  he  were  to  speak,  he 
knew  that  his  voice  would  betray  his  feelings — he 
•wished  his  rival  at  the  devil.  We  beg  our  readers' 
pardon,  but  it  is  truth;  he  did  so,  and  he  wished 
more  than  that — that  he  could  challenge  him,  and 
put  a  bullet  through  his  body.  It  was  a  most 
uncomfortable  time  to  him.  He  called  Bassett  an 
ass — a  stupid,  conceited  ass — in  his  own  mind  ;  and 
perhaps  he  might  have  been  excited  to  call  him  so  to 
his  face,  if  the  old  woman,  who  had  finished  her 
•work,  had  not  got  up,  and  shaking  out  the  gown, 
said  it  was  now  ready,  and  as  it  was  five  o'clock,  the 
gentlemen  had  better  both  take  their  departure. 
"  Did  they  hear  ?  "  she  repeated,  as  if  she  thought 
them  as  deaf  as  herself. 

They  both  rose,  and  Jessie  offering  a  hand  to  each 
at  the  same  moment,  curtseyed  them  a  graceful 
adieu. 

"  I  must  say  a  word  to  you,"  whispered  Williams, 
as  Bassett  left  the  room. 

"  To-night,  after  the  play.  I  do  not  act  in  the 
after-piece,"  said  she,  hurriedly,  and  closed  the  door 
upon  him.  But  that  was  enough ;  he  wanted  no 
more  ;  he  felt  as  if  wings  had  at  once  sprung  from  his 
shoulders. 


A   SPOKE   IW   THE   WHEEL.  71 

The  patten-maker  sold  tickets  for  the  play,  and 
the  words  that  he  heard  after  the  parlour-door  had 
ehut  were,  "  tea  box-tickets  for  to-night." 

The  patten-maker  counted  out  the  tickets,  and 
Bassett,  who  had  drawn  forth  a  handsome  scarlet 
purse  with  gold  rings  from  his  pocket,  laid  down 
a  guinea,  and  without  waiting  for  the  change, 
drew  on  his  gloves,  and  pocketed  Tiis  purse  and  the 
tickets. 

"  Ten  box-tickets,"  said  Williams  to  the  patten- 
maker,  who  looked  as  if  he  had  expected  it ;  and 
thinking  of  a  bootmaker's  bill,  for  the  payment  of 
which  he  had  received  money  from  his  aunt,  drew 
forth  a  very  modest  little  brown  purse,  which  Miss 
Dorothy  Kendrick  had  netted  for  him,  and  paid  for 
his  tickets  with  a  half-guinea,  a  half-crown,  five 
shillings,  and  four  sixpences  ;  the  coin  looked  quite 
beggarly,  and  the  purse  was  left  so  empty  that  the 
rings  slid  off  as  he  put  it  again  into  his  pocket.  But 
he  was  not  going  to  trouble  himself  just  then  on  that 
subject.  Tom  Bassett  also  stood  on  the  door-step  aa 
he  went  out,  and  drawing  forth  an  eye-glass,  con- 
temptuously surveyed  him  from  head  to  foot.  Eye- 
glasses, in  those  days,  were  not  as  common  as  now ; 
and  Williams,  though  he  felt  stung,  as  it  were,  from 
head  to  heel,  hummed,  with  a  gallant,  careless  toss  of 
the  head,  one  of  Jessie's  favourite  airs;  and  recollect- 
ing how  inconvenient  any  public  quarrel  would  be, 
or,  in  fact,  any  quarrel  at  all,  as  it  would  bring  more 
than  he  liked  to  the  knowledge  of  his  uncle,  turned 
upon  his  heel  and  walked  down  the  street. 

Now  came  the  consideration  respecting  the  ten 
tickets,  and  he  almost  thought  himself  a  fool  for 
having  bought  more  than  one  for  himself.  What 


72  A   SPOKE   IN   THE   WHEEL. 

was  he  now  to  do  with  them  ?  He  walked  across 
the  fields  towards  the  Dove-Bridge,  and  came  to  the 
very  wise  conclusion,  that  two  of  them  he  would 
keep,  and  the  other  eight,  wrapping  neatly  in  paper, 
he  would  drop,  on  his  return,  in  the  market-place, 
where  they  would  be  sure  to  be  found.  As  to  the 
two  that  ne  retained,  he  would  boldly  confess  the 
having  purchased  them,  and  ask  permission  for 
Reynolds  and  himself  to  go  to  the  theatre  that  night. 
He  did  as  he  had  resolved;  and,  after  just  aboui 
as  much  reproof  as  he  expected  from  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Osborne,  tea  was  hastened,  and,  grateful  to  his  com- 
panion for  having  obtained  for  him  this  unexpected 
pleasure,  Reynolds  ran  up-stairs  to  prepare  his 
toilet. 

The  little  theatre  was  crowded,  and  the  fair  Jessie 
was  received  most  enthusiastically.  \Villiams  thought 
her  lovelier  than  ever  in  her  quiet  Quaker  costume. 
"  All  the  town  is  in  love  with  her,"  said  he  to  his 
companion ;  "  and  is  she  not  an  angel  ? " 

It  was  quite  a  brilliant  night.  The  very  gentry  of 
the  town  were  there  ;  and  there,  seated  between  the 
two  daughters  of  the  lawyer,  sat  Tom  Bassett. 
Williams  was  delighted,  for  with  these  two  young 
ladies  he  was  quite  secure  for  the  night. 

"  And  now,  my  dear,  good  fellow,"  whispered 
Williams  to  his  companion,  just  before  the  curtain 
fell,  "  you  must  stand  my  friend.  You  will ;  promise 
me  you  will !  "  said  he,  laying  his  hand  on  his  arm, 
and  looking  quite  agitated.  "  I  am  in  love  with 
Miss  Bannermau ;  she  knows  it ;  she  loves  me,  too, 
and  has  promised  me  a  little  interview  this  evening. 
She  is  a  very  angel :  she  is  a  good  girl,  I  assure  _j  ou  .' 
I  love  her  as  my  life,  and  I  am  sure  you  will  be  my 


A    SPOKE   IN    THE   WHEEL.  73 

friend.  She  docs  not  act  agaui  to-night,"  continued 
he,  rapidly,  and  not  allowing  Reynolds  time  to  speak, 
"but  you  will  stay  the  after-piece — it  is  the  most 
amusing  thing  in  the  world ;  and  if  I  am  not  at  homo 
by  the  time  you  are,  don't  let  anybody  miss  me— • 
and  I  '11  do  as  much  for  you  any  time  ! " 

"  But,  Williams,"  began  he.  Williams,  however, 
did  not  wait  to  hear.  The  curtain  fell,  and  he  was 
gone. 

He  knew  perfectly  the  back-entrance  by  which 
Jessie  would  leave  the  theatre ;  and  there,  at  tjie  very 
moment  of  time,  stood  she,  wrapped  in  a  cloak,  and 
attended  by  the  old  woman  with  a  lighted  lantern. 
'Spite  of  the  lawyer's  daughters,  there  also  was 
Bassett,  making  a  thousand  protestations  of  regret 
and  chagrin  at  not  being  able  to  accompany  her. 

"  She  wants  no  escort,"  said  Williams,  rendered 
bold  by  his  good  fortune ;  "  I  shall  have  that  hap- 
piness," and  taking  Jessie's  little  hand,  which  he 
drew  within  his  arm,  he  walked  off  triumphantly. 

"  The  jackanapes  !  the  conceited  jackanapes  !  " 
exclaimed  Bassett ;  but  not  imagining  for  a  moment 
that  Jessie  would  give  a  druggist's  apprentice  the  pre- 
ference over  him,  he  went  back  to  the  theatre  laughing 
to  himself  at  the  youth's  "ignorant  conceit." 

Williams  walked  off  triumphantly  with  Jessie  oa 
his  arm,  and  the  little  old  woman  trudged  beside  llieia 
with  her  lantern  ;  but  scarcely  had  they  gone  tea 
yards  when  they  were  stopped  by  a  man  who  put  a 
small  paper  into  their  hands. 

What  had  they  here  ?  They  stopped ;  and,  by 
the  light  of  the  lantern,  read  the  words,  printed 
in  great,  black,  awful-looking  letters,  "  THE  DOOR* 
OP  THE  PLAY-HOUSE  LEAD  TO  HELL  ! " 


74  A   SPOKE    IN    THE   WHEEL. 

"  It 's  the  parson's  doing  ! "  said  Williams,  shocked 
at  what  he  had  read  aloud,  and  crumpling  it  in  his 
hand,  threw  it  from  him.  "  He  is  a  narrow- souled, 
bigoted,  methodistical  fellow,  who  sets  his  face 
against  every  kind  of  pleasure  !  It  is  just  like  him  !" 

This  little  incident,  however,  seemed  to  throw  no 
gloom  on  him,  after  the  first  moment;  so,  leaving 
them  to  their  full  enjoyment,  we  will  return  to  Rey- 
nolds, who  was  thrown,  by  his  companion's  sudden 
desertion,  into  a  state  of  the  most  complete  perplexity. 
Reynolds  was  a  good-hearted  fellow ;  he  always 
looked  upon  Williams  as  much  older  in  worldly 
experience  than  he  was ;  he,  himself,  was  a  child  in 
comparison  of  him,  a  mere  apprentice ;  whilst  the 
other  had  been,  as  it  were,  "  out  of  his  time"  this  many 
and  many  a  day.  He  had  long  known  that  Williams 
would  never  excel  in  his  business ;  he  had  neglected 
the  study  of  every  branch  of  it  ever  since  the  first 
glow  of  novelty  was  worn  off.  He  was  frank  in  his 
confession  about  it ;  he  hated  business,  and  would 
never  do  any  more  than  he  was  obliged  ;  yet  the 
impulses  of  his  nature  were  often  good  and  kind  ;  he 
knew  his  own  weaknesses  and  acknowledged  them, 
and  was  quite  willing  that  Reynolds  should  stand 
a  long  way  before  him  in  the  good  opinion  of  Mr. 
Isaacs.  Reynolds  really  liked  him,  and  had  so  con- 
stantly and  for  so  long  done  his  work,  and  hidden 
all  his  misdemeanors,  and  made  up  for  his  short- 
comings, that  Williams  had  the  fullest  confidence 
that  he  would  befriend  him  also  in  this  instance. 
Betray  him  he  never  would  ;  and  he 'would  smuggle 
him,  safely  and  unseen,  into  the  house,  if  he  sate  up 
the  whole  night  for  it.  Yes ;  that  was  all  true.  But 
for  all  that,  Reynolds  was  not  at  all  pleased  with  the 


A    SPOKE    IN    THE    WHEEL.  fi 

position  he  was  now  placed  in.  This,  then,  was 
what  he  had  heen  brought  for;  he  had  been  made 
a  cat's-paw  of,  and  he  felt  vexed ;  besides  this,  he 
was  very  honourable  and  religious  in  his  principles 
and  notions;  and  the  hurried  and  candid  confession 
of  his  companion  had  utterly  shocked  and  confounded 
him.  For  his  part,  he  would  as  soon  have  thought 
of  falling  in  love  with  his  grandmother  as  with  a 
player — for  so  he  called  her,  not  "actress,"  as 
Williams  did,  let  her  be  as  beautiful  as  she  might : 
and  then  to  make  appointments  with  her  at  night ; — 
there  was  something  quite  frightful  to  him  in  it. 
And  all  at  once  the  whole  scene  before  him  lost  its 
attraction.  It  was  a  wicked  place  !  that  which  they 
had  just  seen  performed  was  low  and  disgusting — a 
burlesque,  a  coarse  caricature  !  He  was  offended 
— ashamed — angry  with  himself  for  having  been 
amused ; — and  now  this  "  after-piece"  was  worse 
and  ^YOl•se — there  was  not  even  the  beauty  of  Jessie 
Bannerman  to  set  it  off;  the  women  were  painted, 
gaudy  creatures ;  the  men  fit  associates  for  them. 

It  was  in  this  spirit  that  Reynolds  sat  out  the 
"  after-piece." 

When  the  company  dispersed  from  the  theatre, 
there  was  not  one  man  but  three  who  distributed  their 
little  printed  papers.  Everybody  had  one,  some  two 
or  three ;  and  everybody,  on  reading  them,  exclaimed 
••— "  This  is  Mr.  Goodman's  doing;"  or  "  This  is  the 
parson's  doing  ;"  or  "  We  shall  have  a  sermon  against 
the  players  on  Sunday." 

And  all  these  exclamations  were  right.  There 
was  a  sermon  against  them  on  Sunday,  and  a  severe 
one,  too;  and  not  alone  against  players  and  play- 
houses, but  against  all  playgoers,  also.  But  before 


76  A   SPOKE    IN    THE    WHEKL. 

Sunday,  the  clergyman,  who  was  one  of  the  br-st  of 
men,  although  one  of  the  most  rigid,  called  on  the 
Osbornes,  as  he  had  been  doing  for  some  days  on  his 
delinquent  flock,  to  remonstrate  with  so  respectable  a 
man,  and  so  good  a  church-goor  as  Mr.  Osborne,  on 
allowing  his  apprentices  to  frequent  places  of  such 
awful  wickedness  as  theatres  ! 

Williams  was  faint  with  apprehension  lest  the 
clergyman  knew  also  of  his  passion  and  his  acquaint- 
ance with  the  fair  Jessie  ;  the  patten-maker  and  his 
wife  knew  of  it ;  Tom  Bassett  knew  of  it ;  oh,  it 
must  come  out !  He  felt  quite  ill,  and  went  into 
the  ugper  warehouse,  looking  like  anything  but  a 
bold  lover,  where  he  sat  down  on  a  resin-tub, 
waiting  for  the  judgment  which  he  feared  might  be 
at  hand. 

Mr.  Osborne  was  a  very  good,  kind-hearted  man, 
good  to  the  poor,  and  charitable  in  the  gospel-sense 
of  the  word  to  all  mankind.  He  thought  players 
bad,  low  people  ;  but,  for  his  part,  he  saw  no  use  in 
commencing  a  crusade  against  them.  We  should 
never  exterminate  them,  they  would  exist  'spite  of 
us ;  and  people,  he  said,  would  go  to  theatres  to  be 
amused.  People  must  be  amused  ;  he  saw  no  harm 
in  it  at  all.  He  had  had  some  thoughts,  he  said,  of 
going  himself;  and  as  to  his  apprentices — why,  it'  his 
young  men  were  good  and  steady,  and  attended  to 
their  business,  lie  thought  it  only  right  now  and  then 
to  give  them  a  bit  of  pleasure.  He  had  always  done 
so ;  he  had  been  forty  years  in  business ;  had  had 
about  seven-and-twenty  apprentices,  all  of  whom, 
for  what  he  knew,  1/ad  turned  out  well.  He  thought 
that  was  a  proof  that  his  system  was  not  a  very  bad 
one ;  and  with  all  respect  for  the  clergyman,  whom 


A   SPOKE   IN    THE   WHEEL.  7< 

nobody  respected  more  than  he  did,  he  must  still  bo 
allowed  to  pursue  his  own  course. 

The  clergyman  used  his  strongest  arguments ;  ho 
knew  nothing  as  yet  of  Williams's  affairs,  or  ho 
would  have  had  a  famous  argument  in  his  hand;  but 
still  Mr.  Oshorne  adhered  to  the  very  last  to  his  own 
opinions — perhaps  even  went  a  little  beyond  them  in 
opposition  to  what  seemed  the  ultra  opinions  of  the 
other. 

All  this  went  on  in  the  parlour,  and  Mr.  Isaacs 
and  a  customer,  who  was  of  the  clergyman's  way  of 
thinking,  discussed  the  subject  in  the  shop,  whilst 
Reynolds  went  on  with  his  weighing  and  labelling 
and  pill-making,  and  thinking  that  they  were"  right, 
every  word  they  said.  He  did  believe  all  players, 
men,  women,  and  children,  to  be  a  wicked,  low, 
dissolute,  unprincipled  set  of  people,  and  it  was  not 
his  intention  ever  to  go  near  them  again. 

Next  morning,  before  church,  came  Miss  Joanna 
Kendrick  to  beg  that  her  nephew  might  go  to 
church.  She  was  warmer  even  than  the  clergyman 
had  been,  and  really  censured  Mr.  Osborne  for  letting 
his  young  men  go  to  the  play-house.  If  she  had 
been  asked,  she  said,  she  should  have  prevented  it, 
at  least  as  far  as  her  nephew  was  concerned.  Mr. 
Osborne  could  do  just  as  he  liked  with  regard  to  the 
other. 

Mr.  Osborne  felt  quite  vexed — for  the  first  time  in 
his  life  vexed  with  Miss  Kendrick.  He  repeated  to 
her  what  he  had  said  to  the  clergyman  about  his 
forty  years'  experience  in  business  and  the  manage- 
ment of  apprentices  ;  but  it  was  quite  in  another  tone 
of  voice,  and  Miss  Kendrick  was  hurt.  She  replied 
warmly,  and  so  did  he ;  and  really  these  two  excel- 


78  A.    SPOKE    IN    THE    WHEEL. 

lent  people  might  have  quite  come  to  a  quarrel  had 
not  a  note  at  that  moment,  from  a  physician,  required 
Mr.  Osborne's  particular  attention. 

This  note  was  an  awkward  affair,  indeed  ;  such  a 
thing  as  this  had  never  occurred  before  in  the  whole 
forty  years  of  Mr.  Osborne's  practice.  He  started 
up,  and,  with  the  note  in  his  hand,  went  into  the 
back-room,  which  was  appropriated  to  Mr.  Isaacs 
and  the  young  men. 

"  Who  made  up  that  prescription  of  Dr.  Chawner's, 
yesterday  ?  "  asked  he. 

Mr.  Isaacs  considered  for  a  moment,  and  then 
replied  that  Williams  had  done  it. 

Williams  was  sitting  there  reading  a  volume  of 
Massinger's  plays,  which  he  had  borrowed  from 
Anderson,  one  of  the  actors ;  he  started,  and  looked 
frightened.  "  Why,  what  of  the  prescription  ?  "  he 
asked. 

"  Did  you  make  that  up  yesterday  ? "  asked 
Mr.  Osborne,  in  an  angry  tone. 

"  I  did,  sir,"  he  returned,  submissively. 
"  And  how  came  you,  then,  to  put  in  40  drops 
tinctura  opii  and  6  tinctura  scillae,  instead  of  6  drops 
tinctura  opii  and  40  tinctura  scillae  ?  " 

Williams  could  not  tell,  unless  he  had  mistaken  it. 
Mr.  Osborne  swore — yes,  actually  on  a  Sunday 
morning.  Williams's  answer  had  provoked  him  to 
it.  "  Mistaken  a  physician's  prescription  !  What 
the  deuce  did  he  mean  by  mistaking  a  physician's 
prescription,  or  anything  else  !  He  would  be  poison- 
ing people  some  of  these  days ;  what  had  he  learnt 
his  business  for,"  &c.,  &c. 

Never  had  Mr.  Osborne,  in  all  his  forty  years' 
practice,  been  so  angry  as  then.  It  was  the  first 


DEEPER    AND    DEEPER.  79 

time  in  his  life  that  ever  a  mistake  had  been  made  at 
his  counter  in  a  physician's  prescription. 

Williams  knew  well  enough  the  cause  of  his 
blunder — he  knew  where  his  thoughts  had  been 
when  he  made  up  the  prescription.  He  had  not  a 
word  to  say  for  himself. 

Mr.  Isaacs,  almost  as  vexed  as  Mr.  Osborne,  made 
up  the  prescription,  vowing  with  himself  that  lie 
never  would  put  another  into  Williams's  hands. 
Mr.  Osborne  wrote  the  best  apology  he  could  to  the 
physician,  and  Williams  sat  all  the  morning  reading 
Massinger's  plays. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

DEEPER    AND    DEEPER. 

THE  whole  town  talked  of  nothing  but  the  players. 
One  half  the  inhabitants  sided  With  the  clergyman, 
the  other  half  with  Mr.  Maxwell's  company.  The 
theatrical  party  was  headed  by  the  family  of  the 
lawyer  with  whom  was  Tom  Bassett ;  and  this  same 
1  iwyer  not  only  bespoke  a  play,  but  talked  of  giving 
a  supper  to  the  principal  performers. 

The  lawyer's  daughters  thought  of  nothing  but 
private  theatricals  ;  and  Tom  Bassett,  who  was  hand 
and  glove  with  half  the  theatrical  staff,  as  well  as 
desperately  in  love  with  the  prima  donna,  borrowed 
the  actors'  own  copies  of  plays,  and  was  au  fait  in 
all  that  appertained  to  theatrical  life. 

On  the  other  hand,  among  the  persons  most  active 
on  the  side  of  the  clergyman,  were  the  good  Miss 
Kendricks.  It  was  as  good  as  a  sermon  to  hear 
Miss  Joanna  talk ;  she  really  was  more  effective  than 


80  DEEPER    AND    DEEPER 

the  clergyman,  because  she  was  less  violent.  Ho 
talked  of  the  theatre  as  the  "  devil's  house,"  called 
theatricals  the  "work  of  hell,"  and  denounced  all 
such  as,  after  thus  being  warned,  wilfully  aided  and 
abetted  them,  "as  heirs  of  damnation."  It  was  quite 
awful  to  hear  him  talk.  Miss  Joanna,  on  the 
contrary,  spoke  in  love  and  tenderness,  pitied  the 
'•  '  or,  benighted  creatures,"  the  players ;  who,  she 
said,  were  more  to  be  lamented  over  than  pagan. 
Hottentots,  and  she  besought  people,  for  the  love  of 
their  own  souls,  not  to  give  them  encouragement ;  nor 
would  she  at  all  go  the  length  that  the  clergyman 
did,  in  saying  that  it  would  be  a  good  thing  if  every 
copy  of  Shakspeare  had  been  burned  publicly  by  the 
hand  of  the  hangman.  No,  Miss  Joanna,  in  all  her 
zeal,  talked  like  a  tender-hearted  Christian,  and 
people  listened  to  her.  But,  spite  of  all  that  she  said, 
and  spite  of  all  the  clergyman  thundered  forth,  the 
little  theatre  was  crowded  night  after  night. 

Mr.  Maxwell,  the  red-faced  manager,  said  that  he 
liked  nothing  so  well  as  the  opposition  of  a  parson ; 
it  always  did  the  house  good,  and  he  did  not  know 
whether  he  should  not  introduce  Mr.  Goodman  some 
night  on  the  stage. 

All  this  time  the  rivalry  between  Tom  Bassett  and 
our  apprentice  \vent  on  as  hotly  as  ever.  Each 
thought  himself  the  favoured  lover,  yet  still  each 
hated  and  feared  the  other.  Between  these  two 
young  men,  however,  there  was  one  great  difference. 
Bassett  had  plenty  of  money,  Williams  had  none. 
All  that  he  had  of  his  own  had  long  been  gone ;  the 
pound  that  had  been  given  to  him  by  his  aunt  to  pay 
the  poor  bootmaker  had  been  spent  in  tickets,  as  we 
know.  He  had  borrowed  since  then  every  farthing 


BEEPER   AND    DEEPER.  HI 

of  money  from  Reynolds,  and  which,  being  but  a 
scanty  allowance,  was  always  hoarded  and  husbanded 
•with  the  greatest  economy.  From  Mr.  Isaacs  he 
dared  not  borrow*;  nor,  just  then,  when  the  memory 
of  his  blunder  was  fresh  in  his  mind,  durst  he  ask 
money  from  his  uncle.  There  was,  however,  the 
cash  in  the  shop-safe.  His  uncle  placed  the  greatest 
confidence  in  him  as  regarded  money — a  great  deal 
more  than  Mr.  Isaacs  had  done  for  a  long  time. 

"  ShaJM  or  shall  I  not  ?  "  questioned  he  with  him- 
self. Oh^ow  bad  it  is  when  we  begin  to  parley  with 
principle ! 

"  No,  I  will  not  !  "  said  .he  ;  but  he  said  it  feebly, 
as  if  he  were  not  at  all  sure — as  if  he  wanted,  if  he 
could,  to  deceive  himself  into  a  notion  of  his  own 
virtue.  "  No,  I  will  not !  "  said  he,  again  and  again 
— "  at  least,  not  to-day  !  "  he  should  have  added,  to 
be  quite  honest  to  himself. 

The  next  week  was  Christmas  week,  and  it  had 
been  long  an  understood  thing  that  Williams  was  to 
have  a  holiday  on  Christmas-day  :  he  ventured  to 
mention  it  to  Mr.  Osborne,  spite  of  the  unpleasant 
memory  of  the  prescription.  He  had  heard,  he  said, 
how  beautiful  the  gardens  at  Alton  Towers  looked  in 
the  winter,  with  snow  on  the  ground  and  hoar-frost 
on  the  trees ;  he  hoped  he  might  be  permitted  to  go 
there  on  Christmas-day.  "  He  would  be  very  indus- 
trious," he  said,  "  in  future ;"  and  being  once  on  the 
subject,  he  launched  out  freely.  "  He  was  so  sorry, 
so  ashamed,"  he  said,  "  of  the  blunder  he  had  made. 
Mr.  Osborne  had  touched  him  so  by  his  patience 
and  forbearance."  Mr.  Osborne,  himself,  thought 
that  he  had  not  shown  much ;  but  so  the  young 
man  said —  "  and  would  he  only  grant  him  thia 


62  DEEPER    AND    DEEPER. 

favour  now,  he  would  show  how  grateful  he  was." 
On  Mr.  Osborne  —  plain,  honest,  straight-forward 
man  as  he  was,  and  with  every  tendency  to  the  in- 
dulgence of  his  nephew, — all  this*  made  the  very 
impression  which  was  desired.  "  Poor  fellow," 
thought  he,  "he  is  so  cut  up  about  that  blunder; 
he  has  never  looked  like  himself  since — seems  all  in 
a  tremble  and  a  dream ;  one  must  not  be  too  severe 
•with  him ! " 

"  Yes,  surely,  he  might  go  ;"  but  Mr^Dsborne 
could  not  imagine  how  there  would  be  any  pleasure 
in  going  alone — could  not  Reynolds,  too,  have  a  holi- 
day ?  Williams,  who  did  not  by  any  means  think 
of  taking  a  companion  like  Reynolds,  reminded 
Mr.  Osborne  that  Mr.  Isaacs  went  out  on  Christmas- 
day,  too,  and  Reynolds  was  to  have  his  holiday  on 
Christmas-eve  with  his  aunts 

Miss  Kendricks  had  not  been  to  the  Osbornes'  since 
the  little  rencontre  on  Sunday  morning  ;  both  they 
and  the  Osbornes  still  let  the  little  affair  rankle  in 
their  minds.  It  was  that  sort  of  quarrel  which 
sometimes  the  merest  trifle  occasions  between  friends, 
and  whether  it  shall  be  healed,  or  whether  it  shall 
become  a  wide  and  lasting  breach,  depends  upon  one 
or  other  of  them  on  the  first  occasion  of  anxiety  or 
sorrow.  As  yet,  however,  that  occasion  had  not 
presented  itself,  and  Reynolds  went  to  spend  Christ- 
mas-eve with  his  aunts  without  being  the  bearer  of 
any  message  from  Mrs.  Osborne.  Such  a  thing  had 
never  happened  before.  The  Osbornes,  also,  were 
spending  Christmas-eve  out,  and  nobody  was  left  at 
home  but  Mr.  Isaacs  and  Williams. 

With  Williams  it  seemed  as  if  the  crisis  of  his  fate 
were  coine ;  he  had  formed  his  own  plans  both  for 


DEEPER    AND    DEEPER.  83 

that  evening  and  the  morrow ;  as  far  as  regarded  that 
evening,  he  had  formed  them  in  counsel  with  himself 
and  in  desperation,  and  to  the  stifling  of  the  voice 
of  conscience  within  him.  "  But  what  must  he, 
must,"  said  he ;  "  go  there  with  her  I  must  and  shall, 
and  to  go  1  must  have  money." 

His  plans  were,  therefore,  formed.  Reynolds  was 
out  of  the  way  ;  his  uncle  was  so,  too  ;  and  he  made 
himself  sedulously  useful  in  the  shop ;  he  made  pills, 
and  mi^fl  emulsions  for  coughs  and  sold  boxes  of 
issue-plaisters,  and  moved  here  and  there  with  such 
alacrity  as  astonished  and  delighted  poor  Mr.  Ibaacs, 
who  was  racked  that  evening  with  toothache. 

"  Go  and  sit  down  by  the  parlour-fire,"  said 
Williams,  as  the  time  for  shutting  up  the  shop 
approached,  "  I  '11  make  up  the  books  and  see  that 
all  is  left  straight,  and  you  go  and  make  yourself 
comfortable." 

Mr.  Isaacs,  well  pleased  to  leave  his  post  at  the 
desk,  where  a  draught  of  cold  air  came  in  keenly 
against  his  ailing  tooth,  went  into  the  back-parlour, 
and  Williams  had  the  shop  all  to  himself.  The 
warehouse-boy  put  up  the  shutters,  raked  out  the 
fire,  and  was  dismissed  for  the  night.  Williams 
added  up  the  day-book,  counted  the  money  in  the 
till,  put  three-and-sixpence  in  his  pocket,  and  entered 
the  amount,  minus  this,  in  the  day-ledger ;  and  then, 
unlocking  the  shop-safe  with  a  trembling  hand, 
looked  this  way  and  that,  and  thought  if  Isaacs  should 
come  in,  or  if  Mr.  Osborne  should  be  returning  early 
by  some  chance,  and  peep  through  a  crack  of  tho 
shutters.  Oh,  that  miserable  if !  But  why  was  ha 
so  fearful !  Alas,  because  he  intended  to  take  money 
as  he  had  already  done  from  the  till. 


84  DEEPER   AND    DEEPER. 

Once  or  twice  before,  Mr.  Isaacs  had  found  somo 
deficiency  ;  Mr.  Osborne  had  never  even  suspected  it ; 
he  would  as  soon  have  thought  of  his  wife  robbing 
him  as  Williams. 

The  money  was  taken  and  dropped  into  the  waist- 
coat pocket ;  the  safe  was  locked,  and  double-locked. 
If  he  could  have  seen  his  own  face  at  that  moment 
lie  would  have  started.  But  he  did  not ;  and,  rallying 
himself,  he  put  out  the  shop-lights,  and  went  into 
the  back-parlour,  where  the  caudles  werafcburning 
dimly  with  long,  unsnuffed  wicks,  for  poor  Mr.  Isaacs 
was  gone  to  bed. 

There  was  nobody  in  the  room ;  it  was  almost  a 
shock  to  be  thus  thrown,  as  it  were,  upon  himself  and 
his  own  conscience. 

"  Suppose,"  thought  he  to  himself,  "  that,  after  all, 
I  have  only  taken  silver,  two  shillings  and  sixpence  ; 
should  I  then  go  back  and  change  them,  though  I 
know  what  a  horror  this  stealing  is  ?  1  wish  one  had 
no  need  to  do  it ! " 

He  put  his  hand  into  his  pocket  and  drew  the 
money  forth  to  the  light.  It  was  gold — two  guineas 
and  a  half.  He  felt  glad  that  it  was  so.  The 
next  moment  Reynolds  returned — the  gay,  laughing, 
unanxious  Reynolds — Williams  envied  him  his  light- 
ness of  heart. 

The  next  morning  the  church-bells  rang  ;  the  sun 
ehone  bright,  and  the  slight  covering  of  snow  and 
hoar-frost  was  like  the  festal  garment  of  nature.  The 
houses  were  decked  with  holly  and  ivy,  people  were 
moving  briskly  about — the  whole  town  was  merry  ; 
even  the  paupers  in  the  parish  workhouse  arose  that 
morning  with  cheerful  expectation,  for  that  day  they 
were  to  have  roast-beef  and  plum-pudding  for  dinner. 


PEEPER   AND    DEEPER.  85 

Many  people  hived  horses  and  gigs  that  Jay  and 
drove  out  into  the  country,  so  that  there  was  nothing 
at  all  remarkable  in  the  circumstance  of  old  Evans 
driving  one  of  his  miserable  hacks,  which,  however, 
was  made  to  wear  its  best  looks  that  day,  in  one  of 
his  smartest  gigs,  along  the  high  street  and  half-a- 
mile  beyond  the  end  of  the  town.  Of  this  nobody 
took  any  notice,  and  it  was  so  contrived,  also,  that 
nobody  saw  Williams,  whose  great-coat  collar  stood 
up  above  his  ears,  whilst  his  hat  was  slouched  over 
his  eyes,  assist  into  the  said  gig  Miss  Bannerman, 
dressed  in  a  dark  blue  cloak  trimmed  with  fur,  and 
a  black  velvet  bonnet,  and  then  take  ^is  seat  beside 
her,  and  drive  off  briskly.  On  they  drove,  and  pre- 
sently overtook  two  other  gigs,  in  which  were  seated 
five  members,  male  and  female,  of  the  theatrical 
corps,  who,  like  them,  were  going  to  spend  the  day 
in  the  gardens  of  Alton  Towers.  But  as  with  these 
other  five  persons  we  have  very  little  to  do,  we  shall 
drop  them  for  the  present,  and  confine  ourselves  to 
our  young  couple,.just  as  if  they  were  quite  alone. 

Williams  was  enraptured  with  his  fair  companion. 
She  looked  lovelier  than  ever  in  that  black  velvet 
bonnet ;  the  walk  in  the  clear  winter  air  had  brought 
a  colour  to  her  cheek  like  that  of  the  June  rose.  She 
was,  indeed,  very  lovely — but  not  with  that  vulgar 
loveliness  which  alone  consists  of  beauty  of  com- 
plexion, hair  as  dark  and  glossy  as  "the  raven's 
wing,"  and  "  dark,  blue  eyes,  as  soft  as  those  of  the 
dove."  These  she  had,  it  is  true ;  but  that  which 
constituted  the  real  charm  of  her  countenance  was  a 
sentiment  of  tenderness,  calm  decision,  and  truth  and 
love.  It  was  a  face  to  fill  with  tears  the  eyes  of  any 
beholder  capable  of  appreciating  qualities  such  as 


8G  DEEPER    AND    DEEPER. 

these,  in  a  being  exposed  to  every  temptation  which 
can  assail  beauty  and  taint  the  delicacy  of  woman. 
Jessie  Bannerman,  though  a  "player-wench,"  as  half 
the  town  called  her,  was  an  extraordinary  girl.  She 
knew  her  own  personal  worth,  and  her  own  dignity 
as  a  woman,  and  she  made  her  lovers  feel  it,  too.  It 
is  impossible  to  say  what  was  the  peculiar  charm 
which  attracted  her  towards  Williams,  but  to  him  she 
had  really  given  her  affections  ; — this  she  had  never 
denied,  she  was  really  in  earnest  in  her  love ;  — and 
Williams  was  never  with  her  without  feeling,  as  it 
were,  under  the  influence  of  a  superior  nature.  He 
fancied  that  he  adored  her,  that  he  would  have  laid 
down  his  life  for  her  :  he  bought  the  pleasure  of 
being  in  her  company  at  the  expense  of  his  own 
probity ;  and  yet  he  felt  sure  all  the  time  that  could 
she  have  only  known  this  she  would  have  rejected 
pleasure  at  such  a  cost. 

Beautiful  as  were  those  magnificent  gardens,  which 
are  said  to  be  laid  out  on  the  traditional  plan  of  the 
hanging  gardens  of  Babylon,  the  lovers  took  but  little 
notice  of  them  ;  he  was  engrossed  by  her,  and  she  by 
her  own  thoughts.  At  length  they  reached  a  pavi- 
lion, which,  lying  in  the  full  sunshine,  was  warm 
almost  as  in  summer.  Here  they  seated  themselves, 
and  Jessie,  turning  to  the  young  man,  said — 

"  Now,  we  have  had  enough  of  flattery  and  non- 
sense— we  must  talk  seriously.  You  have  talked 
hitherto  ;  you  must  now  listen  to  me.  My  unhappy 
family  history,  which  you  have  heard,  can  only  give 
you  the  idea  of  me  as  of  a  creature  sprung  of 
wretchedness  and  crime,  to  whom  God  has  given,  for 
some  mysterious  purpose,  remarkable  gifts — gifts 
worse  than  useless  if  I  am  to  become  only  the  poor 


PEEPER   AND   DEEPER.  8? 

degraded  being  which  my  present  life  may  seem  to 
foretell.  But,  Edward,"  said  she,  fixing  her  large, 
calm  eyes  upon  him,  "  it  must .  not  be  so  ;  out 
destinies,  after  all,  are,  in  great  measure,  in  our  own 
hands;  a  spirit  within  tells  me  so,  and  that  spirit 
shall  be  my  guide. 

"  I  have  many  lovers,  but  how  few  there  are  who 
would  marry  such  a  one  as  me.  I  speak  plainly, 
Edward,  for  one  of  us  must  do  so ;  and  as  I  have  so 
much  more  experience  in  life  than  you,  and  under- 
stand you  better  even  than  you  understand  yourself,  I 
speak  to  you  openly.  You  talk  of  marriage  :  what 
nonsense  it  is  of  you,  who  are  as  yet  a  boy,  and  do 
not  know  even  your  own  mind  !  I  believe  that  you 
love  me  ;  but  as  yet  you  do  not  understand  me  per- 
fectly, for  you  have  seen  only  that  which  is  idle  and 
trifling  in  me;  but  indeed  I  am  capable  of  much  that 
is  good  and  ennobling  and  valuable  in  life." 

"  Oh,  Jessie,"  said  the  young  man  impatiently,  and 
ready  to  throw  himself  at  her  feet,  "let  ns  unite  our 
fates  at  once.  1  know  what  you  are  —  I  \vi*h  you 
not  other  than  you  are — let  me  rescue  you  from  a 
fate  which  is  unworthy  of  you  !  My  aunt  is  good. 
When  she  knows  your  excellence  she  will  love  you 
as  a  daughter :  they  love  me,  but  how  much  more 
will  they  love  you  ! " 

"  All  nonsense,"  returned  Jessie  ;  "  you  talk  like 
a  child,  as  you  are  ;  you,  that  dare  not  even  -let 
them  know  of  our  acquaintance,  to  talk  thus  !  No, 
no ;  we  must  have  patience,  and  wait  for  the  true 
time.  You  must  wait  for  me  for  five  years." 

"  I  will  go  with  you,"  interrupted  Williams  ; 
"  what  is  all  the  world  to  me  without  you  !  1  know 
that  I,  too,  have  talents — I  would  be  prompter 


88  DEEPER   AND    DEEPER. 

even,   or  candle-snuffer,  or  anything  to    be     neai 
you ! " 

Jessie  laughed  and  shook  her  head — "  That  would 
never  do,"  said  she;  "  that  -would  not  satisfy  me. 
My  father,"  she  continued,  "  blames  me  for  want  of 
ambition ;  but  he  mistakes  me  :  I  am  ainbitious — 
ambitious  of  the  greatest  good  which  life  can  give, 
and  that  is  real  love  and  domestic  happiness  !  Not 
such  love  as  we  act  night  after  night,  poor,  unreal 
love,  all  tinsel  and  glitter; — no,  no,  the  love  that  I 
mean  is  self-denying,  long-suffering,  unobtrusive,  as 
free  to  the  poor  as  to  the  rich.  Oh,  Edward,  I  was 
ill  not  long  ago ;  the  company  went  on  without  me, 
and  I  and  my  good  grandmother — for  such  she  is — 
remained  in  the  house  of  a  poor  tailor.  Would  you 
believe  it,  but  it  was  truly  in  that  house,  and  with 
those  humble  people,  that  I  first  learned  what  true 
Jove  was,  and  what  was  the  real  meaning  and  worth 
of  life.  Happiness  there  was  a  substantial  thing,  not 
dependent  on  wealth  or  the  world's  favour,  for  of 
these  they  had  nothing ;  not  wavering  or  uncertain, 
according  to  the  whim  of  the  moment,  but  as  real 
and  steadfast  as  life  itself.  Love  was  never  talked  of, 
but  they  dwelt  in  its  spirit ;  it  was  as  if  the  atmo- 
sphere of  a  better  region  filled  the  house  ;  the  children 
were  born  in  it,  and  breathed  it  as  their  native  air, 
and  they  were  good  and  kind  like  their  parents.  A 
light  then  broke  in  upon  my  mind.  My  grandmother 
saw  and  felt  these  things  as  1  did  ; — she  is  not, 
Edward,  the  deaf,  stupid  old  woman  which  it  is  her 
will  to  appear ;  but  that  is  her  secret — she  and  I 
understand  each  other.  The  goal  which  I  have  set 
before  my  ambition  is  a  home  of  love,  and  my  prayers, 
Heaven  knows,  are,  that  I  may  be  kept  pure  and 


DEEPER  AND    DEEPER.  89 

tnade  worthy  of  it.  This  is,  perhaps,  my  religion  : 
in  the  eyes  of  thousands  of  good  people  I  am  but  as  a 
poor  outcast  child  of  perdition — worse  than  a  pagan." 

"  You  are  a  real  divine  angel,"  exclaimed  the  young 
man  ;  "  Mrs.  Osborne  would  love  you — she  must  and 
shall  know  you,"  cried  he,  for  at  that  moment  every- 
thing seemed  easy  to  him.  "  When  they  know  you 
they  will  not  oppose  our  union.  I  will  steadfastly 
stick  to  business ;  my  uncle  is  not  a  poor  man ;  he 
will,  I  am  sure,  give  rce  a  share  in  his  business.  I 
will  work  so  hard  for  you,  and  we  will  be  so  happy. 
I  shall  become  good  through  you ;  I  shall  owe  my 
salvation  to  you  ! " 

"Amen!"  said  Jessie,  solemnly;  "but  I,  that,  am 
wiser  than  you  in  some  things,  must  guide  you  a 
little.  You  are  yet  an  apprentice — I  am  yet  under 
my  father's  control :  a  time  will  come  when  we  shall 
both  be  free.  If  you  love  me  truly,  you  must  wait 
till  then.  Five  years  from  now  shall  be  our  time 
of  trial.  This  is  Christmas-day.  You  shall  hear 
from  me  on  the  fifth  anniversary  of  this  day,  but 
to  me  you  shall  not  write.  Five  years  from  thia 
time  our  trial  shall  have  ended.  Can  you  be  true 
to  me  for  so  long  ? — I  know  that  I  shall  be  true  to 
you !" 

Lovers'  vows  sound  foolish ;  therefore,  we  will  not 
write  down  the  violent  protestations  with  which 
Williams  responded  to  this  singular  proposal.  He 
swore  that  neither  heaven  nor  earth  could  ever 
clvingc  him — and  at  the  time  he  thought  so. 

(For  my  part,  I,  that  narrate  this  story,  must  here 
put  in,  ]>y  way  of  parenthesis,  that  had  I  been  present, 
cr  had  been  in  any  way  consulted,  1  should  have 


90  DEEPER   AND   DEEPER. 

said  that  such  a  connection  was  of  that  doubtful 
character,  that,  spite  of  Jessie's  really  superior  nature, 
the  best  thing  would  have  been  to  have  put  an  end 
to  the  whole  affair  as  soon  as  possible.  But,  as 
neither  I  nor  anybody  else  of  great  discretion  was 
present,  the  lovers  made  this  compact,  and  then,  the 
rest  of  the  party  joining  them  soon  afterwards,  they 
all  adjourned  to  the  village  inn  to  dinner.) 

It  was  as  merry  a  dinner  as  ever  was  eaten  by  a  set 
of  poor  players.  They  ate,  and  drank,  and  sung,  and 
told  witty  anecdotes,  and  were  ten  times  freer  and 
easier  than  so  many  lords  and  ladies.  The  host  and 
the  hostess  came  to  the  parlour  door,  and  listened 
and  laughed  too,  and,  spite  of  the  really  serious  con- 
versation which  had  passed  between  him  and  Jessie 
in  the  garden,  Williams  caught  the  infection  of  the 
company's  mirth,  and  was  as  gay  as  any  of  them. 
Something  was  said  of  Mr.  Goodman,  and  Williams, 
who  had  always  maintained  that  he  had  some  talent 
for  acting,  began  to  mimic  his  grave  and  measured 
way  of  speaking.  His  personation  was  called  for 
again  and  again,  and  he  was  declared  quite  a  genius. 
Bassett,they  said,  could  not  do  it  half  as  well.  They 
then  revealed  to  him  a  secret.  Anderson,  who  had 
the  talent  for  writing  little  comic  pieces  of  one  or  two 
acts,  had  written  one  called  "  The  Parson  in  Love," 
intended  to  ridicule  Mr.  Goodman :  there  was  a 
young  actress  in  the  piece,  Lucinda,  who  was  to 
personate  a  puritan  lady,  Mrs.  Tabitha  Twiggem,  who 
was  to  inveigle  the  clergyman,  and  load  him  into 
endless  fooleries.  Jessie  was  to  take  this  character 
and  Bassett  was  to  take  that  of  Parson  Perfect — and 
it  was  to  be  given  out  that  he  was  a  new  actor  from 


BEEPER    AND    DEEPER.  & 

London.  Now  Williams  was  so  superior  to  Bassett 
that  if  he  would  only  consent  to  take  the  character 
and  act,  they  would  manage  it  ; — they  would  put  off 
Bassett  with  something  else,  or  let  him  act  in  another 
piece, — but  Williams  must  be  their  Parson  Perfect ; 
—they  would  have  no  nay.  Anderson,  who  was  of 
the  party,  had  a  scene  in  his  pocket,  Williams 
roust  look  it  over  and  try  it — he  did  so — Bravo ! 
bravissimo !  they  exclaimed :  it  was  inimitable ! 
Parson  Goodman  would  never  show  his  face  after 
the  public  had  seen  that ;  he  would  have  had  enough 
of  preaching  against  players !  Williams,  delighted 
to  excel  Bassett  in  anything,  consented  to  act.  Jessie 
heard  all  that  went  on,  and  did  not  oppose  his  acting. 
It  was  very  clever,  she  said,  and  much  better  than 
she  expected. 

And  now  the  company  rose  and  began  to  talk  of  their 
departure.  It  was  already  dusk,  and  bitterly  cold. 

"  Ah,  my  good  fellow,"  said  Anderson,  who  wag 
deputed  to  be  paymaster-general  for  the  players,  as 
he  saw  Williams  about  to  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket 
for  his  own  share  of  the  expc-nses — "  have  you  a  few 
spare  shillings  in  your  pocket,  ivv  the  fellow  has  made 
me  a  deuced  great  bill — let  me  see,  have  you  five-and- 
twenty  ?  " 

Williams,  who  was  in  high  good  humour,  and 
greatly  flattered  by  the  applause  which  his  acting 
had  obtained,  drew  out  from  his  pocket  a  handful  of 
loose  change. 

"  Ah  !  capital ! "  said  Anderson,  and  took  some- 
where about  seven-and-twenty  shillings,  saying, 
"  we  '11  have  a  reckoning  when  we  get  home." 

Away  drove  the  company.  The  snow,  which  had 
ihawed  in  the  morning,  had  frozen  again  ia  the  after- 


02  DEEPER    AND    DEEPER. 

noon,  and  it  was  terribly  slippery,  as  veil  as  cold. 
The  gigs  drove  off,  agreeing,  on  account  of  the  bad 
state  of  the  roads,  to  keep  in  company.  Williams 
and  Jessie  were  last.  Perhaps  Williams  might  be  the 
worst  driver  in  the  company ;  perhaps,  and  most 
probably,  his  horse  was  the  worst  conditioned  ;  how- 
ever that  might  be,  within  the  first  two  miles  their 
companions  got  farahead  of  them,  and  with  every  mile 
their  horse  seemed  to  become  stiffer  and  clun.sier  ; 
at  last,  down  he  canie,  but,  fortunately  not  lower 
than  his  knees.  Williams  pulled  him  up  again,  and 
giving  him  a  series  of  cuts  with  his  whip,  broke  that 
useful  instrument,  but  fortunately  sent  on  his  steed, 
for  a  short  time,  at  least,  at  a  much  brisker  and  there- 
fore safer  pace.  Everybody  knows  what  a  hopeless 
thing  it  is  to  drive  a  dull  worn-out  horse  with  a 
broken  whip  ;  slower  and  slower  went  the  creature, 
and  Williams  pommelled  with  the  stump  of  his  whip, 
and  flapped  with  his  reins  till  he  made  himself  quite 
hot. 

"  Ah  !  if  our  path  through  life  should  be  like  this," 
sighed  poor  Jessie ;  and  scarcely  had  she  finished 
the  sentence  when  down  came  the  horse  flat  to 
his  nose,  with  his  legs  doubled  under  him.  Crash  ! 
went  one  shaft,  and  out  flew  Williams  on  one  side 
and  poor  Jessie  on  the  other.  It  was  a  miracle  that 
they  were  not  both  killed  or  had  some  bones  broken. 
Williams  sprang  to  his  feet,  hardly  knowing  that  he 
was  down,  and  with  very  becoming  lover-like  anxiety 
flew  to  look  after  his  lady.  Fortunately  she  was 
not  hurt,  not  the  least  in  the  world,  said  she  eagerly, 
in  her  turn  inquiring  after  him.  No,  they  were  not 
either  of  them  hurt — only  Jessie  then  confessed  to  a 
very  little  pain  in  her  wrist ;  she  thought  that  she 


J)EKPER    AND    DEEPER.  93 

must  have  sprained  it.  Williams  was  in  the  greatest 
distress — what  was  to  be  done  ?  For  her,  nothing,  she 
said.  There  was  a  village  just  at  hand,  and  thither 
she  would  hasten  for  help,  whilst  he  stayed  with  the 
horse ;  and  off  she  went,  firm-footed  as  a  young  roe. 
The  village  was  just  by,  and  the  most  ready  help  was 
obtained  at  the  first  house.  Men  returned  with  her, 
with  rope  and  lanterns,  and  presently  the  horse  was 
on  his  legs  again,  not  looking  much  worse  than  before, 
excepting  for  his  broken  knees ;  the  shaft  was  tied 
together,  and  they  were  assured  that  there  would  be 
no  difficulty  about  going  forward,  as  the  road  was 
well  tracked  beyond  the  village,  besides  which,  a 
peasant  offered,  for  half-a-crown,  to  accompany  them 
to  the  town  with  a  lantern. 

Very  little  was  said  by  the  lovers  during  the 
remainder  of  their  journey.  Jessie  seemed  sunk  in 
thought,  and  so  was  Williams,  for  he  was  really 
frightened  to  think  how  he  should  get  off  with  Evans, 
regarding  the  broken  shaft  and  the  broken  knees  of 
the  horse.  Money,  he  knew,  would  make  all  straight ; 
but  where  in  the  world  was  the  money  to  come  from? 
He  did  not  believe  that  he  had  more  than  a  guinea 
left ;  thirteen  shillings  he  had  to  pay  for  the  hire  of 
the  horse  and  gig,  and  half-a-crown  must  go  to  the 
man  with  the  lantern.  • 

How  those  anxieties  about  money  thrust  them- 
selves like  evil  demons  between  us  and  our  pleasures 
—nay,  even  between  us  and  our  comforts  !  We 
have  known  many  a  dinner  spoiled  by  the  thought 
of  the  cost ;  many  a  good  night's  rest  broken  because 
some  dire  thought  or  other  about  want  of  cash  has 
been  gnawing  at  our  heart !  And  thus  it  was  with 
Williams ;  all  the  day's  pleasure  was  spoiled  to  him 

6 


94  DEEPER   AND   PEEPER. 

now  by  the  thought  of  the  reckoning.  At  length  th« 
unfortunate  steed  stopped  at  the  gate  which  led  to 
his  stable.  It  was  not  so  late  after  all ;  it  was  only 
eight  o'clock.  Their  companions  had  arrived  long 
before  and  were  all  dispersed ;  but  the  first  person 
whom  Williams  saw  on  dismounting  was  no  other 
than  Reynolds,  who,  on  his  side,  stared  in  amaze- 
ment, and  then  looked  reproachfully.  He  had  then 
been  with  that  young  actress  to  Alton  !  This  was 
what  he  wanted  the  holiday  for  1 

Without,  however,  waiting  for  a  word  from  him, 
Williams  called  him  aside,  and  putting  the  guinea 
into  his  hand,  said,  "  Just  run  over,  there  's  a  good 
fellow,  to  Reeves' s" — this  was  a  small  druggist  and 
grocer's  shop  opposite,  which  Mr.  Osborne  supplied — < 
"  and  get  me  change,"  for  Williams  knew  that  if  he 
offered  the  full  sum  to  Evans  he  should  get  no  change, 
and  change  he  must  have  to  dismiss  the  peasant. 

Reynolds,  amazed  as  he  was,  yet  thinking  no 
harm,  for  he  had  always  seen  Williams  with  plenty 
of  money,  brought  back  the  change. 

"  And  novr  stop  one  moment  with  Miss  Banner- 
man,"  said  he,  "  whilst  I  get  the  fellow  paid,"  for 
Williams  preferred  doing  this  alone.  Reynolds, 
though  full  of  prejudices  against  players,  both  male 
and  female,  could  not  refuse,  and  Williams  soon  after 
joined  them,  when  both  young  men  having  accom- 
panied Jessie  to  the  patten-maker's  door,  went  home 
together,  but  not  before  Williams  had  prescribed 
bandages  and  fomentations  for  the  sprained  wrist,  and 
had  promised  to  bring  her  that  very  night  an  embro- 
cation himself. 

If  Williams  had  before  been  unfit  to  attend  to  his 
business,  he  was  much  more  so  now.  Jessie  was  never 


DEEPER    AND    DEEPER.  95 

out  of  his  thoughts ;  considering  that  his  aunt  and 
uncle  as  it  were  espoused  the  cause  of  the  players,  he 
was  for  ever  scheming  whether  he  could  not  bring 
Jessie  and  his  aunt  acquainted ;  he  thought  of  her 
being  adopted  as  a  daughter  into  the  family — he 
thought  of  a  thousand  unlikely  things — in  fact,  in 
the  exciti  d  state  of  mind  he  then  was,  he  could  not 
tell  probable  from  improbable  things ;  not  at  all ! 
He  even  thought  of  getting  the  two  guineas  which 
Evans  demanded  for  the  damaged  horse  and  gig  from 
poor  Reynolds.  Reynolds  could  borrow  the  money 
from  his  aunts  as  if  on  his  own  account,  he  thought. 

Thus  pondered  and  thus  schemed  Williams,  and 
in  the  mean  time  his  friends  the  players  were  pre- 
paring to  bring  out  the  new  comedy  of  "  The  Parson 
in  Love;"  the  character  of  Parson  Perfect  to  be 
performed  by  "  a  new  actor  from  London,"  and  the 
double  character  of  Lucinda  and  TabithaTwiggcin  by 
Miss  Jessie  Dftnnerman. 

Williams  duly  received  his  part  in  MS.,  which  he 
private  ly  learned  and  rehearsed,  not  daring,  for  the 
life  of  him,  however,  to  take  Reynolds  into  his  con- 
fidence on  this  subject,  for  ever  since  the  night  of 
the  Fair  Quaker  of  Deal  he  had  been  as  vehement 
against  players  and  playgoers  as  his  aunts  91  Mr. 
Goodman  himself. 

A  rehearsal  of  the  whole  piece  was  proposed  at 
Mr.  Maxwell's  lodgings  on  Sunday  afternoon,  and 
thither  of  course  Williams  was  summoned.  But 
when  he  got  there  something  very  peculiar  presented 
itself.  There  was  Tom  Basset t,  to  whom  also  a 
copy  of  the  part  of  Parson  Perfect  had  been  sent— « 
there  he  was,  come  to  rehearse  his  part,  and  had 
brought  with  him  an  order  for  five-and-tweuty 


96  PEEPER    AND   DEEPER. 

tickets.  How  was  this?  both  young  men  seemed 
to  inquire — but  there  was  nobody  to  answer  them— 
the  whole  theatrical  staff  seemed  to  be  in  the  next 
room,  which  was  Mr.  Maxwell's  bed-room.  Voices 
were  heard  in  this  said  bed-room,  loud  voices  and 
angry  voices,  too,  and  now  and  then  the  two  rival 
amateur-actors  had  the  pleasure  of  hearing  their  own 
names  mentioned. 

To  pass  away  the  awkward  time,  and  to  seem  &t  his 
ease,  Williams  threw  himself  into  an  arm-chair 
and  drew  his  manuscript  from  his  pocket,  and  began 
to  turn  it  over.  Bassett  seeing  this,  and  instantly 
detecting  that  his  rival's  part  actually  was  his  own, 
pulled  out  his  also,  and  seating  himself  opposite, 
glanced  from  the  paper  in  his  hand  at  his  rival,  with 
no  very  amicable  expression  of  countenance.  Just 
as  Williams  was  about  to  return  the  expression  the 
door  opened,  and  in  walked  Jessie.  She  bowed 
courteously  to  both  young  men,  and  thus  addressed 
them : — 

"  There  has  been  a  strange  and  almost  ludicrous 
mistake  made  with  regard  to  the  part  of  Parson 
Perfect.  Mr.  Anderson,  it  seems,  intended  it  for 
Mr.  Williams." 

"  He  himself  offered  it  to  me,  my  dear  Miss 
Bannerman,"  interrupted  Bassett. 

Jessie  waved  her  hand,  and  continued,  "  Mr. 
Anderson  says  that  it  was  his  wish  that  Mr.  Williams 
should  take  the  character.  Mr.  Maxwell  on  the 
contrary  very  much  prefers  Mr.  Bassett  having  it. 
Very  warm  words,"  said  she,  smiling,  "  as  no  doubt 
you  have  heard — for  the  walls  are  thin — have  arisen 
on  the  subject.  This,  however,  is  their  decision, 
that  I,  who  take  the  part  of  Luciuda,  shall  make  the 


THE    BUBBLE    BURST.  97 

choice  between  you.  Will  you,  gentlemen,  give  me 
your  hands  to  be  satisfied  with  my  decision,  and  not 
let  ill-will  arise  between  you  in  consequence,  for  to 
one  I  must  show  a  preference  ?  " 

"  We  will  be  quite  satisfied,"  said  they  both,  each 
sure  of  the  preference,  and  took  the  offered  hand, 
which  was  extended  witli  the  sweetest  of  smiles. 

*'  Then,  Mr.  Bassett,"  said  she,  "  you  take  the 
part.  You  are  Parson  Perfect  and  I  Luanda." 

Williams  dashed  his  manuscript  to  the  flov,r  and 
looked  daggers  at  them  both. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE     BUBBLE     BURST. 

THE  next  day  the  walls  were  placarded  ;  the  new 
comedy  of  The  Parson  in  Love  was  to  be  acted  with 
new  scenery,  new  actors,  and  endless  new  attractions. 
The  sight  was 'gall  and  wormwood  to  Williams.  He 
had  nevertheless  in  the  bottom  of  his  soul  the  convic- 
tion that  Jessie's  decision  was  influenced  by  some 
feeling  of  advantage  or  propriety  as  regarded  himself, 
but  still  he  was  mortified.  In  the  eyes  of  his  rivai 
he  was  rejected. 

The  whole  town  talked  of  the  new  piece ;  a 
rumour  got  abroad  that  Mr.  Goodman  was  to  be 
quizzed.  Some  of  the  young  actors'  pranks  in  the 
town  had  caused  a  little  scandal ;  the  public  mind 
was  inclining  against  them.  Good,  sober  house- 
keepers found  their  servants'  heads  turned  about  the 
theatre ;  housemaids  read  plays  while  they  should 
have  made  beds;  cooks  gossiped  for  whole  hours 
at  the  bakehouse  about  the  handsome  actors  and 
actresses.  Everything  wa^  evidently  going  wrong. 


68  THE   BUBBLE   BURST. 

*'  It  is  high  time  those  people  left  the  town/* 
Said  those  who  were  just  beginning  to  veer  to  the 
clergyman's  side. 

"  Those  disreputable  people  ought  to  be  packed 
off  by  authority,"  said  they  who  had  thought  with 
the  clergyman  all  the  time  ;  "  and  if  they  venture 
to  ridicule  him  in  their  obscene  plays,  they  shall 
be  packed  off — and  that  handily." 

Williams  had  told  Jessie  that  he  would  not  go 
to  the  theatre  that  night ;  that  he  could  not  bear 
to  see  her  acting  with  Bassett.  It  would  drive 
him  mad,  he  said.  Jessie  did  not  urge  it,  and  he 
was  almost  out  of  his  mind  with  jealousy  and  cha- 
grin. It  is  possible,  however,  that,  after  all,  he 
might  have  gone,  had  it  not  been  for  an  awkward 
affair  which  just  then  happened. 

Mr.  Osborue  and  Mr.  Isaacs  were  together  in  the 
shop,  when  Mr.  Reeves  came  in,  and  scratching  his 
head,  said,  "  Is  young  Reynolds  anywhere  about  ?" 

He  was  not,  said  Mr.  Isaacs,  he  was  gone  into  the 
country  on  business. 

"  Why,  you  see,"  said  Reeves,  addressing  Mr. 
Isaacs,  and  leaning  on  the  counter  with  both  his 
elbows,  and  taking  a  guinea  from  his  pocket — "  that 
young  gentleman  got  me  to  give  him  change,  maybe 
a  fortnight  ago — on  the  evening  of  Christmas-day. 
Now  it  is  an  awkward  thing  to  come  with  money  so 
long  afterwards — but  I  put  the  guinea  aside  at  the 
time — I'll  swear  to  it  that  it 's  the  same — and 
now  you  see  it's  light  weight.  But  young  Mr, 
Reynolds  will  know  all  about  it  in  a  minute." 

Long  before  this  speech  was  ended,  Mr.  Osborne, 
\vho  had  come  round  the  counter,  took  the  guinea 
out  of  Reeves's  hand  and  carefully  examinM  it. 


TUE    BUBBLE    BURST.  99 

He  then  went  to  his  money-safe,  and  looking  among 
his  gold  came  back  and  asked  Isaacs  in  an  under- 
tone from  Avhom  he  had  the  guinea  1 

"  From  Reynolds,"  returned  Isaacs,  and  went  on 
industriously  polishing  a  pair  of  scales. 

Williams  came  in  at  that  moment,  but  Reevei 
was  so  often  there  on  business  that  he  took  no 
notice,  and  seating  himself  at  the  apprentices'  desk 
began  to  think  of  Jessie  and  the  play. 

"  We  will  have  it  made  right,  Mr.  Reeves,"  said 
Mr.  Osborne   hurriedly,  when  Williams  came  in. 
"  Mr.  Isaacs  shall  see  you  to-morrow." 

When  Reynolds  returned  in  the  evening  he  was 
summoned  to  Mr.  Osborne's  presence,  who,  producing 
the  guinea,  asked,  "  Do  you  know  anything  of  this 
guinea  ?  " 

Reynolds  took  it  into  his  hand,  and  examining  it, 
returned  it,  saying  that  he  did  not. 

"  Did  you,"  inquired  his  master,  "  get  change 
some  little  time  ago  from  Mr.  Reeves  for  a  guinea?  " 

Reynolds  changed  colour  slightly,  and  after  a 
moment's  pause,  said,  "  I  did." 

"  And  whence  had  you  the  guinea  ?  "  asked  he. 

Re)'  nolds  looked  confused  and  was  silent. 

"  There  is  something  singular  in  this,"  said  Mr. 
Osborne,  "  I  must  have  an  answer.  The  money 
was  in  my  possession  a  little  time  ago.  I  knew 
it  to  be  light,  and  marked  it  with  a  penknife  that 
I  might  not  pay  it  away.  It  has  gone  from  my 
cash-box.  I  may  have  paid  it  away  by  mistake — 
but  then  how  came  it  into  your  hands,  or  why  do  you 
refuse  to  account  for  it  ?  I  would  not  willingly 
suspect." 

w  Sir,"  interrupted  Reynolds,  "  I  am  innocent  of 


100  THE    BCBBLE    BUKST. 

what  you  suspect — I  never  took  a  sixpence  which 
was  not  my  own — but  yet  of  that  money  I  cannot 
give  an  account." 

"  It  looks  suspicious,"  said  Mr.  Osborne. 

"It  does,"  said  Reynolds,  "  but  that  I  cannot 
help — all  I  can  ask  is  four-and-twenty  hours  for 
consideration." 

"  You  shall  have  it,"  said  Mr.  Osborne. 

It  was  Mr.  Isaacs's  custom  after  seven  o'clock  to 
sit  in  the  back  parlour,  where  he  read  the  newspaper, 
or  dozed  a  little, — after  that  time  the  apprentices 
were  alone. 

"  Williams,"  said  Reynolds,  as  soon  as  he  was 
gone,  "  you  have  got  me  into  a  pretty  scrape  about 
changing  that  guinea  for  you." 

Williams  felt  as  if  his  very  heart  grew  chill. 

"  It  was  light  weight,"  said  Reynolds,  "  and 
Reeves  has  brought  it  back  again.  Mr.  Osborne  in- 
sists on  knowing  how  I  came  by  it ;  there  was,  it 
seems,  his  private  mark  on  it." 

"  How  came  he  to  know  anything  about  it?  ' 
asked  Williams  angrily.  Reynolds  told. 

"  The  dsuce  take  it !"  muttered  Williams. 

"  Well,"  said  Reynolds,  "  it  is  your  own  affair,  you 
know.  I  have  confessed  nothing,  because  I  would  not 
betray  you — but  if  blame  there  be  about  it — you 
must  bear  it.  I  am  innocent  and  can  clear  myself  in 
a  minute,  and  would  have  done  so  if  it  had  not  been 
for  getting  you  into  trouble  about  that  girl." 

"  The  deuce  take  it,"  again  muttered  Williams. 

"  You  must  make  up  your  mind  about  what 
you  '11  do,"  said  Reynolds,  "  I  shall  clear  myself  to- 
morrow." 

"  Clear  yourself,  and  be  hanged  to  you,"  returned 


THE   BUBBLE   BURST.  101 

Williams — "clearing  one's-self  is  easy  enough — what, 
do  you  take  me  for  a  thief?  It's  easy  enough  to 
clear  myself  about  the  money — I  don't  look  at  every 
guinea  that  is  given  me — I  received  only  the  other 
day  some  money  from  Mrs.  Osborne  ! — What  a  fuss 
is  here  about  the  money ! — but  the  point  is  not  to  let 
it  come  out  about  taking  Miss  Bannerman  to  Alton. 
And  then  there  is  that  wretched  Evans  dunning 
about  his  old  dog-tit  of  a  horse  and  his  tumble-down 
gig — I  was  a  fool  for  ever  going  to  him  !  The  fellow 
is  as  importunate  as  death.  Now,  I  say,  Reynolds, 
cannct  you  borrow  the  money  for  me  ?  Won't  your 
aunts  or  somebody  lend  it  you?  " 

"  You  owe  me  already  two  pounds  fifteen,"  said 
Reynolds, — "  and  as  to  borrowing  from  my  aunts  I  do 
uot  believe  that  they  will  lend  me  any." 

"  Oh,  for  heaven's  sake,  go  and  try  !  "  said  Wil- 
liams, deeply  excited — "  this  shall  be  the  last  time 
that  I  ever  will  borrow  from  you.  I  '11  turn  over  a 
new  leaf,  I  do  assure  you  I  will !  I  '11  be  as  steady 
as  you  are  !  " 

We  need  not  go  through  all  the  conversation  that 
ensued,  the  flatteries,  the  entreaties,  the  confessions 
of  past  folly  and  extravagance,  and  the  humble,  con- 
trite promises  of  amendment,  all  of  which  so  worked 
upon  Reynolds  that  he  consented  to  make  one  more 
attack  on  his  aunts. 

When  he  reached  his  aunts,  he  found  them  in  a 
state  of  vast  excitement.  Mrs.  Proctor,  the  great 
town  gossip,  had  just  been  there,  and  had  brought  a 
long  exaggerated  history  of  how  the  heads  of  all  the 
apprentices  in  the  town  were  turned  with  the  players, 
and  how,  in  particular,  both  of  Mr.  Osborne's  young 
men  were  in  love  with  one  of  them  ;  they  had  be«n 


102  THE  BUBBLE   BUKST. 

seen  walking  late  at  night  with  that  good-for-nothing 
Bannerman  ;  they  had  hired  gigs  for  her  and  driven 
about  the  country  with  her,  and  spent  money  upon 
her  without  end. — There  was  a  bunch  of  flowers 
that  somebody  had  given  her — no  doubt  one  of  them 
— which  cost  fifteen  shillings,  and  which  Mary 
Parker,  the  butter-buyer,  had  brought  by  order  from 
a  gardener's  in  Birmingham.  It  was  a  sin  and  a 
shame  that  they  were  allowed  to  remain  in  the  town, 
for  thus  these  young  men  might  be  led  into  practices 
that  might  ruin  them  for  life. 

As  he  entered  he  found  his  aunt  Joanna  with  her 
bonnet  and  cloak  on,  and  with  her  servant  dressed 
also,  and  with  a  lantern  in  her  hand.  Joanna,  late 
as  it  was,  full  of  zeal  for  the  good  name  of  her  nephew, 
was  setting  out  to  Evans's,  to  make  him  recall  his 
words  with  regard  to  her  nephew  taking  out  the 
players  in  gigs.  She  knew,  she  said,  that  Evans  was 
wrong,  and  those  who  were  to  blame  should  bear  the 
blame,  and  not  the  innocent.  It  was  in  vain  that 
Reynolds  made  light  of  the  matter  as  regarded  him- 
self; she  was  bent  upon  vindicating  him,  and  he, 
half  in  anger  and  half  with  miserable  apprehension 
for  his  friend,  whose  cause  he  felt  as  if  he  must 
espouse,  sat  down  with  his  aunt  Dorothy  to  wait 
the  other's  return. 

On  her  return  she  came  fraught  with  new  tidings. 
It  was  Williams  who  had  hired  the  gig ;  he  had 
taken  a  tribe  of  players  with  him  to  Alton,  had 
treated  them  at  the  inn,  where  they  had  all  got 
drunk,  and  in  driving  home  like  so  many  mad 
folks  Williams  had  thrown  down  his  horse,  ruined 
it  for  ever,  and  broken  the  gig  into  the  bargain. 

"  This    come0 "   said    Miss  Kendrick,    "  of   Mr. 


THE    BUBBLE    BURST.  ]CO 

Osborne's  encouraging  those  abandoned  people  ;  con- 
sidering what  might  be  the  natural  and  inherited 
impulses  of  Williams,  Mr.  Osborne  ought  to  have 
been  doubly  on  his  guard.  But  he  has  sown  in 
the  whirlwind  and  he  may  reap  in  the  storm," 
said  Joanna  with  emphasis. 

Reynolds  fired  up  at  once.  "  It  was  not  generous 
to  bt-  ripping  up  poor  Williams's  family  misfortunes 
- — what  would  she  say  if  people  did  so  by  him  ;  he 
never  would  stand  by  silently  and  hear  his  friend 
thus  spoken  of." 

It  was  a  luckless  rencontre.  There  was  always  a 
something  in  what  the  one  said  to  excite  the  other. 
Poor  Dorothy  tried  to  make  peace  between  them, 
but  did  not  succeed.  However,  the  end  of  it  was 
that  Reynolds  must  stay  supper  with  them,  and 
then,  grown  quite  bold  and  desperate,  he  asked  his 
aunts  to  lend  him  two  guineas. 

Joanna  actually  started ;  "  here  was  more  of  the 
devil's  work,"  she  said,  adopting  for  the  first  time 
the  clergyman's  phrase — "no,  she  would  not  lend 
him  a  sixpence." 

"  I  will,"  said  Dorothy,  "  not  that  I  am  satisfied  of 
all  being  right.  But  if  he  have  done  wrong  we  will 
hope  that  he  may  do  so  no  more.  We  must  endeavour 
to  rule  by  love  and  not  by  severity,  Joanna." 

Reynolds  returned  home  with  the  money. 

There  was  not  a  deal  of  sleeping  at  the  Osbornes' 
that  night.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Osborne  talked  over, 
with  the  deepest  sorrow,  the  sad  discovery  which 
they  believed  was  about  to  be  made  regarding 
Reynolds ;  he  who  had  seemed  so  steady,  so,  almost 
religious — how  they  grieved  for  his  poor  aunts. 
All  the  little  pique  was  forgotten.  Mrs.  Osborne 


104  THE    BUBBLE   BURST. 

felt  as  if,  from  this  time  forth,  she  should  show 
them  nothing  but  kindness,  for  this  was  indeed  a  sore 
grief  that  would  cut  them  up  sadly.  "  Poor  Miss 
Kendricks !"  that  was  the  beginning  and  the  end  of 
their  consultations. 

Very  little  sleep,  too,  was  there  in  the  apprentices' 
room  ;  none  at  all  in  Williams's  bed.  Now  he 
thought  of  throwing  himself  at  his  aunt  and  uncle's 
feet,  and  confessing  his  love  for  Jessie  and  begging  them 
to  see  and  to  hear  her — if  he  could  not  move  them, 
he  was  sure  she  could  !  Now  he  thought  of  confess- 
ing to  having  taken  the  money,  and  leaving  Jessie  to 
stand  or  fall,  trusting  to  the  future  as  regarded  her ; 
for  their  own  credit's  sake,  he  believed  that  they 
would  sbield  him  from  public  disgrace ;  then  he 
tried  how  it  would  be  if  he  steadfastly  declared  the 
light  guinea  to  have  been  given  him  by  Mrs,  Osborne 
—but  then  came  the  difficulty  about  its  being 
changed  at  Reeves's.  It  was  a  bad,  entangled  affair, 
and  he  vowed  with  himself,  that  once  clear  of  it,  and 
all  his  little  debts  paid,  he  never  would  get  into  any 
such  mess  again ! 

The  next  morning  he  was  up  early,  and  set  out  to 
pay  Evans  and  have  done  with  him.  Unfortunately, 
however,  he  went  a  little  out  of  his  way  that  he 
might  pass  the  patten-maker's,  and  thus  have  the 
pleasure  of  passing  the  house  that  held  Jessie.  A 
slight  tap  at  the  parlour-window  arrested  his  steps. 
It  was  old  Mrs.  Bellamy,  who  in  her  old  night-cap 
stood  there,  and  beckoned  him  in.  Jessie  was  down 
also,  and,  early  as  it  was,  they  were  going  to  breakfast. 

"  We  shall  not  now  remain  many  days  here,"  said 
Jessie  on  his  entrance,  "  if,  indeed,  many  hours. 
You  are  wigry  with  me  I  know,  but  you  will  pre- 


THE    BUBBLK    BUIIST.  106 

eently  see  that  it  was  the  truest  regard  for  you  which 
influenced  my  decision.  This  wretched  pasquinade 
was  not  my  doing ;  and  when  you  hear  those  who  are 
really  good  and  excellent  in  the  town — among  the 
rest  the  Osborues — censuring  me  for  my  part  in  it, 
then,  remember,  I  was  but  as  the  puppet ;  others 
Dulled  the  wires ;  had  I  been  a  free  agent  it  should 
not  have  been  so.  But  Edward,"  said  she  solemnly, 
"  if  you  hear  the  worst  and  the  most  unjust  things  said 
against  me,  do  not  bring  yourself  into  t;-ouble  by 
defending  me.  You  know  me  better  than  they,  and 
that  is  enough." 

"  You  shall  not  go  with  these  people ! "  said 
Williams.  "  Oh,  if  Mrs.  Osborne  did  but  know  you  !" 

"  It  is  impossible,"  returned  Jessie,  "  she,  like 
everybody  else,  will  take  against  me.  You  will  hear 
how  we  shall  be  abused;  it  will  be  a  disgrace  to  have 
been  acquainted  with  us.  All  I  ask,  then,  is,  that  in 
your  own  heart  you  will  not  disown  me.  Never 
mention  my  name — but  oh,  Edward  ! "  said  she,  with 
tears  in  her  eyes — "  if  young  men  ever  have  serious 
moments  of  prayer — then  remember  me." 

The  young  man  made  the  most  passionate  vows  of 
fidelity. 

"  And  now,"  said  she,  "  we  part — you  must  not 
attempt  to  see  me  again.  We  shall  meet  again — but 
not  yet — in  five  years — and  then,  perhaps,  not  to 
part  again. — Till  then,  farewell !  " 

There  was  something  so  singular  and  solemn  in 
her  manner,  that  Williams  felt  almost  awed.  He 
eeemed  to  himself  to  stand  like  a  block,  and  do 
nothing — what  was  vowing  fidelity — he  must  give 
her  some  token  of  his  truth.  He  had  not  a  ring  to 
break  between  them,  but  he  had  a  guinea — he  rushed 
out  to  the  patten-ruakerV  shop  and  cut  a  guinea  in 
7 


106  THE    BUBBLE   BURST. 

two.  "  Here  is  gold  broken  between  us,"  said  he, 
"  keep  one  half  for  my  sake  ! " 

"  It  is  cut,  not  broken,"  said  the  old  woman, 
"  and  that  is  unlucky.' 

"Money,"  said  Jessie,  "  was  not  needed  between 
us — what  nonsense  it  was  to  do  so — a  lock  of  your 
hair  would  have  been  better — or,  best  of  all,  nothing 
— for  true-love  needs  no  token — yet  I  will  not  refuse 
your  gift,"  said  she,  putting  the  gold  into  her  bosom. 
—Now  farewell — and  when  I  am  evil  spoken  of — do 
not  let  your  heart  be  ashamed  of  me !  " 

"  Never,"  said  Williams;  "  the  worse  they  say  the 
better  shall  I  love  you  !  " 

No  sooner  was  Williams  out  of  the  house  than  he 
tiiought  how  foolishly  he  had  done  in  sacrificing  the 
guinea !  How  much  wiser  she  was  than  himself ! 
He  could  not  now  pay  Evans,  and  there  was  nothing 
to  do  but  go  home  to  breakfast. 

"  It  never  rains  but  it  pours,"  says  one  proverb ;  and 
another,  which  means  the  same  thing,  says  that 
"  misfortunes  never  come  alone."  It  was  so  now  with 
poor  Williams.  But  before  he  reached  home  we  must 
mention  what  he  saw  as  he  left  the  patten-maker's 
door.  A  group  of  men  and  boys  were  tearing  down 
from  the  walls  the  players'  bills,  and  daubing  those 
which  they  could  not  reach,  with  mud.  It  was  as 
Jessie  had  said ;  public  abhorrence  had  set  in  against 
the  players. 

When  Williams  arrived  at  home,  who  should  be 
standing  in  the  shop  but  Evans ;  fortunately  Reynolds 
alone  was  there. 

"  Oh/'  said  Williams,  without  allowing  Evans 
time  to  speak,  "  I  have  been  in  search  of  you — there's 
a  guinea  for  you.  What  do  you  come  after  me  for  ?" 

"  After  you,''  said  Evans,  looking  at  the  guinea 


THE  BUBBLE   B*l>HST.  10? 

with  disdain,  "  why  am  I  to  be  overhauled  v>  I  waa 
by  Miss  Kendrick  last  night,  as  an  abettor  of  players 
and  the  very  scum  of  the  earth ;  why  ?  I  say,  and  I'll 
ask  it  of  any  man !  " 

"  Ask  who  you  will,"  returned  Williams  in  an 
agitated  voice,  "  but,  for  Heaven's  sake,  begone  with 
you.  You  know  that  I  mean  to  pay  you  honestly. — 
I  set  out  this  morning  to  pay  you. — Now,  for 
Heaven's  sake,  I  would  not  that  Mr.  Osborne  knew 
anything  about  it !  " 

"  Will  you  pay  me  or  not  ?"  asked  EArans  doggedly, 
holding  out  his  hand  with  the  one  guinea  in  it. 

"Are  you  indebted  two  guineas  to  this  man  for 
mischief  done  to  a  horse  and  gig  hired  by  you  to  take 
a  player  to  Alton  on  Christmas-day?"  asked  Mr. 
Ooborne  in  an  awful  voice  close  behind  him. 

He  saw  that  he  was  betrayed,  and  turning  pale  as 
death  he  said  not  a  word. 

Evans,  who  really  was  not  a  bad-hearted  man,  waa 
Borry  in  a  moment  for  what  lie  had  done,  and  began 
to  apologise — he  coujd  wait — he  was  sorry,  only  he 
had  been  provoked,  &c. 

It  was  too  late  either  to  be  sorry  or  to  apologise. 
Mr.  Osborne  again  sternly  demanded  from  his  nephew 
if  the  money  were  due — if  he  had  promised  to  pay  it. 

*'  He  makes  that  demand,"  said  Williams,  "  but 
the  horse  was  broken-knee'd  and  broken- winded — " 

Mr.  Osborne  cut  his  explanation  short  by  putting 
another  guinea  into  Evans's  hand  and  bidding  him  go 
about  his  business. 

With  a  sad  countenance  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Osborne  sat 
down  to  breakfast.  Everybody  were  drinking  their 
coffee  in  silence,  when  a  loud  knock  at  the  private 
door  startled  them  all.  The  next  moment  the  Her. 
Mr.  Goodman  entered;  and  Mr.  Isaacs,  who  had  not 


108  THE    BUBBLE    BURST. 

made  half  a  breakfast,  rose  from  his  chau  and  went 
out.  The  two  apprentices  were  about  doing  the  same 
thing,  when  Mr.  Goodman  begged  that  they  might 
stay.  He  seemed  very  much  excited ;  he  came,  he 
said,  to  complain  of  the  vile,  obscene  pasquinade, 
which  had  been  acted  the  night  before,  and  in  which 
he  heard  with  sorrow  and  the  deepest  astonishment 
that  a  character  intended  to  ridicule  himself  had  been 
performed  by  this  young  man,  said  he,  pointing  to 
Williams,  and  with  this  he  drew  from  his  pocket  a 
play-bill,  and  pointed  out,  "  Parson  Perfect — a  young 
amateur  actor  from  London." 

"  You  are  under  a  mistake,  my  dear  sir,"  said  good 
Mr.  Osborne,  really  glad  to  be  able  to  defend  hisnephew. 

"  I  think  I  may  go,"  said  Reynolds,  anxious  not  to 
witness  the  trouble  which  he  feared  hung  over  his 
friend. 

"  You  may  not  go,"  said  the  clergyman  sternly. 
"  I  have  promised  your  excellent  aunts  to  question 
you.  I  thought  well  of  you,  Reynolds,"  said  he 
mournfully — "  it  has  cut  me  to  the  heart  to  be 
deceived  in  you  ! " 

"  And  what  have  I  done  ?  "  asked  he. 

"  This  impatience  is  unbecoming,"  said  the  clergy- 
man, "  very  unbecoming  !  Can  you  deny  that  you 
walked  up  and  down  the  town,  arm-in-arm,  with  that 
young  girl,  Bannerman,  on  Christmas-day-night  ?  " 

As  Reynolds  was  about  to  reply,  Miss  Kendrick 
walked  in,  and  scarcely  was  she  seated  when  in 
rushed  Mrs.  Proctor,  regardless  of  times  and  seasons. 
She  came  with  a  budget  of  news;  but  nobody  could 
listen  to  her,  and  she  went  out  again  with  something 
more  interesting  than  aH  the  rest  to  spread  abroad, 
and  that  was  of  the  awful  conclave  that  was  sitting 
in  Mr.  Osborne's  parlour. 


PART  II. 


CHAPTER  I. 

OLD    ACQUAINTANCE   AND   NEW. 

MRS.  PROCTOR  and  her  favourite  friend  and  gossip, 
Mrs.  Morley,  who  now,  after  an  absence  of  some 
years,  had  returned  to  reside  again  in  the  town,  were 
sitting  together  at  tea.  The  little  white  muslin  blind 
was  taken  down  from  the  window,  for  they  wanted 
to  have  a  good  view  of  a  funeral  that  was  about  to 
take  place.  Mrs.  Proctor  fortunately  lived  just  by 
the  church,  so  that  she  consequently  saw  all  the 
marriages  and  funerals,  and  mostly  invited  some  of 
her  friends  to  see  them  with  her.  The  funeral-bell 
now  tolled  solemnly  ;  the  sun  shone  calmly  over  the 
beautiful  church-yard,  and  on  the  open  grave,  and  on 
the  slow  procession  that  now  advanced  towards  it. 
The  ladies  at  their  window  made  their  remarks ;  "  it 
was  a  very  handsome  funeral ;  the  very  first  people- 
of  the  town  at  it,  and  no  wonder,  for  Mr.  Osborne 
was  respected  by  everybody. — And  there  was  young 
Williams,  whom  the  Osbornes  had  adopted  as  their 
son — what  a  handsome  young  man  he  was,  and  how 
well  he  looked  in  his  mourning  !" 


110  OLD    ACQUAINTANCE    AND    NEW. 

Thus  they  made  their  comments  and  then  sat  down 
to  talk. 

"  Well,  I  've  heard  say,"  said  Mrs.  Proctor,  "  tha* 
young  Williams  is  as  a  relation  of  theirs — some  sup- 
pose a  son  of  that  poor  Phebe  Phillips,  Mra. 
Osborne'e  sister,  that  married  so  badly — but  I  don't 
know — it  may  or  it  may  not — however,  you  see,  they 
were  always  very  fond  of  him,  and  behaved  to  him  as 
if  he  were  their  own  son.  When  there  was  all  that 
stir  and  scandal  about  the  players !  Lord,  what  a  stir 
it  made  !  They  took  his  part  and  cleared  him  through 
thick  and  thin — though  folks  said  there  was  some- 
thing very  scandalous  and  shameful,  if  it  could  only 
have  come  out.  Nobody  knew  justly  what  it  was, 
but  those  Miss  Kendrieks,  who  after  that  time  were 
ten  times  more  intimate  than  ever, —  and  Mr.  Good- 
man, who  was  vicar  here  at  that  time.  Well,  as  I 
was  saying,  after  all  that  scandal,  poor  Mrs.  Osborne 
never  rightly  was  herself  again.  She  had  no  regular 
complaint,  but  she  got  ailing ;  now  she  went  here  and 
now  there — now  for  change  of  air,  now  for  mineral 
waters,  and  now  for  sea-bathing.  It  was  well  for 
Mr.  Osborne  that  he  had  such  a  trustworthy  person 
in  his  shop  as  Mr.  Isaacs — young  Reynolds  was  out 
of  his  time  and  was  gone — was  gone  to  some  great 
house  in  London — his  aunts  thought  of  making 
something  out  of  the  common  way  of  him — and  it 
was  well  I  say  that  Mr.  Osborne  had  that  steady  Mr. 
Isaacs  with  him,  for  after  his  wife  was  so  poorly  he 
never  rightly  cared  about  business — there  ain't  many 
such  husbands  !  " 

"  I  've  heard  say,"  remarked  Mrs.  Morley,  "  that 
it  was  a  love-match  at  first." 

"  Like  enough,"  returned  her  friend,   "  and  old 


OLD    ACQUAINTANCE    AND   NEW.  Ill 

folks  as  they  were,  they  were  like  lovers  to  the  last. 
Folks  said,"  continued  she,  "  that  all  the  trouble  he 
had  with  his  apprentices  made  him  sick  of  business, 
and  so  he  made  Isaacs  a  sort  of  partner,  and  turned  all 
management  over  to  him.  Young  Williams  was  gone 
too — and  then  after  three  or  four  years  they  sent  for 
Reynolds  again — old  Isaacs  couldn't  do  without  him 
— and  when  he  came,  Lord,  what  changes  he  brought 
with  him— he  *d  got  new  notions  in  London — must 
have  the  old  shop-front  out — puts  up  new  windows. 
— Inside  and  outside  all  was  changed — begins  some 
sort  of  manufacturing — gets  head-man  nt  once — • 
Williams  then  comes  back  too — a  fine  young  man 
indeed  is  he !  — puts  on  a  shop-apron  again  and  buckles 
to — but  anybody  could  plainly  see  that  it  was  only  to 
please  the  old  folks.  She  died,  however,  and  then 
when  she  was  gone  the  old  man  was  a  regular  wreck — 
broker.-up  in  no  time ! — Why  he  was  only  sixty- 
nine  when  he  died ! — " 

*'•  I  Ve  heard  Nurse  Gee  say,"  remarked  Mrs.  Mor- 
ley,  "  that  it  was  quite  cutting  to  hear  him  in  his 
dreams  talking  to  her — and  then  when  he  woke  and 
found  how  it  was — it  was  up  with  him  for  days. — He 
got  quite  childish  before  he  died. — I  wonder  how  he 
has  left  his  property  ?  " 

Some  weeks  after  this  the  ladies  were  again 
together,  and  with  them  Miss  Jenkins,  who  was 
cousin  to  Lawyer  Bishop's  wife,  and  she  it  was  who 
had  first  brought  the  news  to  her  friends  that  Mr. 
Osborne's  will  had  surprised  everybody — he  had  left 
positively  twenty  thousand  pounds,  every  penny  cf 
which  went  to  Williams,  without  a  farthing's  legacy 
to  go  out  of  it.  His  house  and  business  lie  left 
jointly  to  old  Isaacs,  Reynolds,  and  young  Williams, 


112  OLD    ACQUAINTANCE    AND    NEiT. 

only  Williams's  name  was  to  stand  first  in  the  firm. 

The  ladies  were  again  talking  on  this  subject, 
•which  was  not  easily  exhausted,  when  another  was 
introduced  in  consequence  of  a  small  modest-looking 
card  being  brought  in  by  Mrs.  Proctor's  maid,  and 
which  ran  thus,  "Marianne  Jervis, Miniature-painter, 
and  Teacher  of  Fancy  Work  of  all  kinds,  at  Mrs. 
Cope's,  Milliner,  Balance  Street." 

"  Oh,"  said  Miss  Jenkins,  recognising  the  card  at 
first  sight,  "  that  is  really  a  wonderful  girl,  have  you 
seen  none  of  her  work  ?  She  does  all  kinds  of  work 
—  paints  miniatures  delightfully  —  does  poonah 
painting,  and  makes  rice-paper  flowers  and  wax 
flowers — just  like  life — and  makes  bags  of  bead- 
work  ;  and  paints  screens ;  and  does  everything ;  and 
so  cheap — it's  wonderful ! — You  may  find  your  own 
materials  if  you  like  ;  and  she  makes  them  up  beau- 
tiful !  Mrs.  Tom  Bevington  has  bought  sonic  wax 
flowers  from  her,  and  my  cousin  Mrs.  Bishop  is  going 
to  have  her  to  paint  the  baby,  and  the  black  spaniel. 
She  has  Mrs.  Cope's  parlour :  there  is  her  father  with 
her,  a  very  old-looking  man,  who  goes  about  with 
little  packets  of  stationery,  boxes  of  steel-pens,  wafers 
and  sealing-wax,  wrapped  up  together,  saying  that, 
*  all  these  are  for  one  shilling  only  :'  he  leaves  them 
one  day  and  calls  for  them  the  next ;  and  looks  like  a 
broken-down  gentleman." 

"  He  has  been  here,"  said  Mrs.  Proctor,  "  but  I 
make  a  principle  of  never  encouraging  beggars  of 
any  kind." 

"  They  are  not  exactly  beggars,"  said  Miss  Jenkins, 
who  had  established  herself  as  a  patroness  of  the 
young  artiste — "  and  she  is  the  loveliest  little 
creature  you  ever  saw,  so  small  and  delicately 


OLD    ACQUAINTANCE    AND    NEW.  113 

made;  with  a  complexion  like  marble;  and  yet 
pretty  as  she  is,  she  is  so  steady  and  so  kind  to  her 
father,  and  works  so  hard — Mrs.  Cope  says  she  ia 
always  up  till  after  midnight. — Have  you  never  seen 
her  ?"  asked  she — neither  of  the  ladies  could  recollect 
having  done  so — but  how  did  she  dress  ? 

"  Always  in  black,"  returned  Miss  Jenkins,  "  in  a 
black  stuff  frock,  little  black  cloak,  and  a  close  black 
ch;p  bonnet." 

No,  the  ladies  had  never  seen  her,  nor  had  they 
much  desire  to  see  her.  There  was  something  mostly 
not  quite  right  about  such  people.  Many  thought 
that  Mrs.  Cope,  considering  that  she  was  now  a 
widow,  and  had  just  begun  business,  ought  to  mind 
whom  she  took  into  her  house.  She  got  into  a  sad 
scrape  some  years  ago,  when  her  husband  was  living, 
with  having  some  good-for-nothing  players  lodging 
there.  They  wished,  for  her  sake,  that  it  might  all 
turn  out  right. 

We  will  now,  the  friendly  reader  and  myself,  look 
into  that  same  little  parlour,  which  formerly  we 
called  the  patten-maker's,  but  which  for  the  last 
twelve  months  served  the  patten-maker's  widow  as 
her  little  show-room  ;  but  which  now  she  had  let, 
business  not  being  very  successful,  to  the  young 
miniature-painter  and  maker  of  fancy-work,  and  her 
dejected-looking  father. 

"  And,  father  dear,  don't  be  cast  down,"  said  the 
young  girl,  "  I  am  sure  that  he  would  not  have  the 
heart  purposely  to  avoid  you.  There  must  be  some 
accident  about  the  letter  being  returned ;  depend 
upon  it,  one  so  young,  and  brought  up  with  such 
good  people,  must  be  good  like  them.  All  will  bo 
right  in  time  ;  only,  father  dear,  do  not  be  tout 


114  OLD    ACQUAINTANCE   AND    NEW. 

down  !"  said  she,  throwing  her  arms  round  his  neck, 
and  playfully  twisting  her  small  fingers  in  his  thin 
gray  hair.  "It  has  not  been  combed,"  said  she,  "  all 
the  morning;"  and,  taking  a  small  case-comb  from  her 
father's  waistcoat  pocket,  she  began  smoothing  and 
arranging  his  hair.  It  seemed  to  have  a  soothing  influ- 
ence on  him ;  he  sat  still,  and  his  face  grew  calmer. 

"  Well,  well,  child,"  said  he  at  length,  putting  her 
genrly  from  him,  "  I  must  be  going,  and  if  I  am  not 
back  to-night,  don't  be  alarmed.  I  shall  go  round 
by  Lichfield  and  Burton,  and  may  be  absent  two  or 
three  days." 

"  But  I  must  know,  first  of  all,"  said  she,  cheer- 
fully, "  that  all  is  ready  for  your  journey.  Have 
you  got  your  night-cap  ?  Nay,  I  must  see  it  before  I 
can  believe.  Ah,  good,  yes  !  And  your  gloves  ?  and 
let  me  see  that  there  are  no  holes  in  them.  Sit  down 
like  a  dear  father,  while  I  mend  them ;  you  will  have 
walking  enough  before  you  come  back ! "  and,  so 
saying,  the  dear,  cheerful,  little  creature  took  out 
her  little  needle-book  and  thimble,  and  mended  up 
the  old  gloves  as  tidily  as  if  they  had  been  new, 
though  anybody  but  she  would  have  said  that  they 
were  past  mending  months  ago.  How  like  the  most 
skilful  of  valets  she  brushed  his  old  coat,  which,  like 
his  gloves,  had  seen  its  best  days  long  ago,  chatting 
and  singing  all  the  while  like  a  spirit  of  love  and 
gladness  as  she  was. 

When  all  these  little  offices  were  done  for  him,  and 
the  neat  little  paper  of  sandwiches  put  into  his  pocket 
before  his  eye,  and  he  duly  warned  to  remember  that 
he  had  them  with  him,  and  not  to  do  as  he  did  some- 
times, go  famishing  all  day,  and  then  bring  them 
Lome  dry  in  his  pocket  at  night — which  she  assureJ 


A    CONTRE-TEMPS.  115 

him  was  anything  but  economical. — When  all  this 
was  done,  and  his  blue  camlet-bag,  which  looked  very 
Inuch  like  a  lawyer's,  and  which  contained  his  neat 
little*  packets  of  stationery,  was  set  on  the  table 
before  him,  she  brushed  his  hat,  and  set  his  stick 
ready  for  him ;  and  then  kissing  him,  woke  him 
from  a  reverie  into  which  he  had  fallen. 

Poor  man!  he  looked  harassed  and  weary,  and 
not  fit  to  begin  a  foot-journey,  even  of  two  days  • 
and  so  his  daughter  thought,  and  at  another  time  she 
might  have  urged  his  staying  at  home,  but  now  she 
had  reasons  of  her  own  for  wishing  him  out  of  the 
way,  at  least  fora  little  while;  so  begging  him  always 
to  keep  the  shady  side  of  the  road,  and  not  to  be 
afraid  of  spending  sixpence  or  a  shilling  in  getting  an 
occasional  lift  in  a  returned  chaise  or  even  a  cart, 
and  never  to  walk  too  far  without  resting,  she  did 
her  best  to  speed  him  on  his  way,  and  the  poor  day- 
dreaming, unfortunate  man  took  up  his  bag  and  stick, 
and,  kissing  her  tenderly,  went  out. 


CHAPTER  ft. 

A    CONTBE-TEMPS. 

As  soon  as  her  father  was  gone,  she  set  herself 
busily  to  work;  first  of  all,  she  took  all  her  little 
store  of  fancy-work  and  painting  out  of  the  window, 
dusted  the  inside  of  the  window,  blew  every  particle 
of  dust  from  the  various  articles,  and  thought  to 
herself  how  fortunate  it  was  that  this  window  lay  to 
the  north,  and  thus  had  so  little  sun  to  fade  the 
things,  though  it  was  a  pity  that  even  here  the  flies 
made  such  Avork  over  everything.  But,  however, 
all  was  now  neatly  arranged  in  the  window,  and  she 


116  A   CONTRE-TEMPS. 

thought  that  they  had  never  looked  so  nice  before « 
next  she  set  out  her  little  table  with  her  drawing 
materials,  and  reared  up  the  miniature  of  Mrs.  Bishop's 
chubby  baby,  which  was  not  at  all  amiss,  and  the  large 
drawing  of  the  black  spaniel,  and  made  everything 
look  neat  and  business-like,  that  if  Mrs.  Cope  had  to 
bring  anybody  in  during  her  absence,  things  might 
look  to  advantage. 

All  this  ended,  and  nobody  in  this  world  could  make 
poverty  wear  a  fairer  face  than  Marianne,  she  went 
into  her  little  chamber  to  dress.  She  had  her  own 
reasons  for  wishing  to  look  very  charming  this  morning. 
She  had  often  been  to  the  smart  new-fronted  shop  of 
W  illiams,  Isaacs,  and  Co. ;  she  had  been  sent  there  by 
her  father  for  wafers  and  ingredients  for  his  cheap 
sealing-wax;  and  old  Mr.  Isaacs  and  young  Mr. 
Reynolds  had  taken  great  notice  of  her ;  Williams 
she  had  never  seen.  Some  way  or  other  young 
Reynolds  always  served  her ;  she  liked  to  be  served 
by  him  in  preference  to  any  one,  and  whenever  she 
had  been  to  the  shop,  he  could  never  think  of  any- 
thing but  her  all  day  long,  and  many  a  night  he  had 
dreamed  of  her.  She  had  done  the  very  same  thing 
by  him.  He  talked  of  sitting  for  his  miniature,  and 
she  wished  with  all  her  heart  that  he  would. 

Marianne  knew  her  father's  history,  knew  the 
reason  for  his  coming  to  that  town.  It  was  the 
parable  of  the  prodigal  son  reversed — it  was  the  pro- 
digal father  seeking  reconciliation  with  his  fortunate 
Bon.  He  had  sought  for  that  reconciliation,  and  had 
been  repulsed,  disowned,  treated  as  an  impostor,  and 
now  his  humble,  touching  letter  had  been  returned 
unanswered.  He  was  disheartened,  wounded,  crushed 
to  the  earth.  He  understood  that  his  son  passed  much 


A    CONTRE-TKMPS.  11? 

of  his  time  at  Burton ;  to  Burton  therefore  ha  went, 
but  without  explaining  his  intention  to  his  daughter, 
determined  to  have  an  interview,  and  to  drag  pity 
and  justice  from  him.  Marianne,  knowing  her  father's 
unsuccess,  doubted  in  her  own  mind  if  he  had  gone 
wisely  to  work.  She  could  not  conceive  her  brother 
to  be  the  harsh,  proud,  cold-hearted  being  that  her 
father  had  found  him.  Her  father  had  forbidden  her 
interfering,  but  now,  however,  she  was  resolved  to 
make  the  attempt  upon  her  own  responsibility,  and 
her  good,  hopeful  heart  said  that  she  would  succeed. 

She  was  still  dressed  in  the  black  stuff  frock,  little 
black  cloak,  and  chip  bonnet,  but  when  she  went 
tripping  down  stairs,  and  through  Mrs.  Cope's  room, 
that  good  woman  thought  she  had  never  seen  her  look 
so  gay  and  lovely.  "  What  in  the  world  has  the  young 
creature  in  hand,"  said  she,  as  she  looked  down  the 
street  after  her,  "  she  is  a  good  angel,  bless  her  little 
heart !  that  she  is ! " 

Down  the  street  went  Marianne,  and  across  the 
next,  right  up  to  the  smart  chemist's  shop,  where 
stood  Reynolds,  looking  very  gay  and  smart  too,  while 
two  apprentices  and  old  Mr.  Isaacs  were  attending  to 
customers.  Reynolds,  like  Mrs.  Cope,  thought  that 
he  had  never  seen  Marianne  look  so  charming  before, 
— there  was  a  half- timid,  half- trustful,  and  most 
peculiar  expression,  so  good,  so  kind,  yet  so  modest, 
in  her  face,  as  she  looked  at  him,  and  asked  for  two- 
pennyworth  of  Indian  rubber.  He  flew  behind  the 
counter,  took  out  a  drawer,  picked  out  the  very 
nicest  pieces,  all  square  and  smooth,  and  every  one  of 
them  sixpence  a  piece. 

"  Is  this  two-pence  ? "  asked  she,  taking  up  the 
very  largest  and  nicest. 


118  A   CONTRE-TEMPS. 

*'  It  is,"  said  he. 

She  took  two-pence  from  her  little  black  silk  bag, 
and  wrapping  them  up  in  a  small  piece  of  writing 
paper,  on  which  some  words  were  written,  gave  them 
to  him. 

She  saw  him  read  the  words — that  was  what  she 
intended — and  yet,  for  the  life  of  her  she  could  not 
help  feeling  almost  faint  as  she  did  so  ;  and  without 
venturing  another  glance  at  him,  she  put  the  Indian 
rubher,  which  he  had  carefully  wrapped  up  for  her, 
in  her  bag,  and  hurried  out  paler  than  ever;  and  with 
such  a  trembling  in  her  knees,  that  she  thought 
certainly  she  should  drop.i 

Reynolds,  on  his  part,  was  no  less  agitated ;  the 
words  on  the  paper  were  these  :  "  I  am  deeply  inte- 
rested in  the  happiness  of  one  dear  to  me  as  life; 
this  obliges  me  to  ask  a  private  interview  with  you. 
Will  you  'meet  me  this  afternoon  at  four  o'clock,  in 
the  fields  between  the  old  cotton  mill  and  Crake- 
marsh." 

Reynolds  asked  himself  a  thousand  questions,  not 
one  of  which  he  could  answer.  His  feelings  were  of 
a  very  mixed  kind.  For  one  moment  he  was  sorry 
that  she  had  done  this;  the  next  he  was  charmed  and 
flattered.  What  young  man  of  five-and-twenty  would 
not  have  been  so  too  ? 

At  half-past  three,  he  was  sitting,  very  carefully 
dressed — he  had  never  taken  such  pains  with  his 
person  before — on  the  stile  just  beyond  the  old  cotton 
mill,  looking  towards  the  town,  that  he  might  catch 
the  first  glimpse  of  her ;  and  a  little  after  he  savr 
the  light,  neat,  black -apparelled  form  of  Marianne 
approaching.  He  leaped  down  from  his  seat,  and 
sprang  forward  to  meet  her.  She  looked  paler  than 


A    CONTRE-TEMPS.  119 

ever,  and  greatly  agitated.  He  would  have  taken  her 
hand,  but  she  withdrew  it  hastily,  but  not  without 
his  feeling  how  it  trembled ;  and  standing  still,  she 
said  gravely,  "As  yet  all  liberties  with  me  are  insults. 
Listen  to  me  before  you  touch  my  hand,  for  as  yet 
I  appear  to  you  but  in  a  doubtful  light.  Fifteen 
years  ago  you  parted  with  a  little  sister — do  you 
remember  her  ?  " 

"  I  do,"  said  the  young  mroi,  striking  his  hand 
upon  his  forehead,  "  I  remember  her  well." 

"  I,  then,  am  that  sister  !  " 

"  You ! "  exclaimed  he,  with  a  feeling  of  almost 
disappointment.  "  You  tliat  little  Susan  whom  I 
loved  so  much !  " 

"  If  I  were  then  called  Susan,"  said  she,  "  I  have 
since  then  been  called  Marianne — there  was  much  in 
that  time  to  be  forgotten." 

"  There  was  !  there  was  ! "  said  Reynolds,  "  but 
we  will  not  think  of  it  now.  We  will  forget  all  the 
past  just  now ;  some  other  time  you  shall  tell  me  all, 
we  will  rejoice  now  in  the  present,"  said  he,  taking 
her  now  unresisting  hand,  and  putting  it  within 
his. 

"  And  you  will  see  our  poor  father,  then,"  said  she, 
"  and  acknowledge  him  ?  " 

He  started,  stopped  short,  and  looked  at  her  almost 
in  horror. 

"  It  is  so,  then !  "  she  said  reproachfully,  "  you 
refuse  to  acknowledge  him !  " 

"How  can  this  be?"  said  he,  "is  our  father  living? 
I  thought  that  they  had  taken  his  life." 

"  No,  thank  God !  "  she  returned,  "  he  was  trans- 
ported ;  but,"  she  said,  imagining  that  now  she  saw 
why  her  father  had  been  treated  as  an  impostor  by 


120  '        A    CONTRE-TEMPS. 

his  son,  "  they  never  told  you  how  it  was  really.  1 
daresay  he  was  but  seldom  spoken  of." 

"  Never ! "  said  Reynolds,  "  I  never  heard  them 
speak  of  him;  my  feelings  have  always  been  so  much 
considered.  And  he  lives  then,  actually  ?  " 

"  Yes,  lives,"  said  she,  "  and  is  so  changed  that 
even  you — that  nobody — need  be  ashamed  of  him — 
poor  as  he  is.  But  he  is  so  good,  so  gentle,  his  only 
fault  is  that  he  loves  me  too  well,  has  adventured  too 
much  for  me.  Oh,  how  thankful  I  am  that  you  will 
own  him  !  I  always  thought  you  would.  Often  have 
I  come  to  the  shop,  just  to  see  you — you  looked  to 
me  so  good  and  amiable,"  said  she,  blushing,  and 
looking  affectionately  in  his  face. 

"  I  declare  I  never  saw  anybody's  bonnet  fit  their 
heads  so  prettily  as  yours,"  exclaimed  he,  stopping 
suddenly,  and  letting  go  her  arm.  "  Come,  I  must 
see  this  bonnet  off,"  said  he,  suddenly  untying  the 
strings — "  No,  I  won't  crush  the  dear  little  bonnet, 
not  I.  I  tell  you  what,  you  ought  never  to  wear  a 
bonnet ;  it 's  a  sin  and  a  shame  to  hide  your  head." 

"  Oh,  give  me  my  bonnet,"  said  she,  "  you  make 
me  quite  ashamed  !  " 

"  I  shall  not  give  up  the  bonnet  till  I  have  had  a 
kiss,"  said  he ;  and  without  further  ceremony  caught 
her  in  his  arms,  and  kissed  her  forehead  and  lips. 

"  I  tell  you  what,1'  said  he,  "  I  really  am  sorry, 
after  all,  that  you  are  my  sister.  I  would  a  deal 
rather  have  had  you  for  my  wife." 

"I  '11  come  and  keep  your  house  for  you,"  said  she, 
"  that  I  will;  you  have  no  notion  what  a  good  house- 
keeper I  am." 

"  No,  you  shall  not  keep  my  house,"  said  he,  "  else 
1  know  somebody  that  will  be  falling  in  love  with 


A    CONTRE-TEMPS.  121 

you,  and  then  you  will  never  care  a  jot  for  me.  No, 
I  shall  put  you  under  a  glass  case,  and  keep  you  all 
to  myself." 

Thus  talked  he ;  and  Marianne,  happier  than  ever 
she  had  been  before  in  her  life,  walked  by  his  side, 
addressing  him  as  "William"  and  "  brother"  most 
affectionately,  and  thinking  that  she  could  not  have 
patience  to  wait  till  her  father's  return.  At  length, 
in  the  midst  of  her  happiness,  one  thought  of  regret 
came  to  her  mind,  and  she  said,  "  It  was  a  great  dis- 
appointment to  my  poor  father  to  find  my  aunt  dead. 
He  hoped  with  her  to  find  me  a  home." 

Again  Reynolds  stopped.  "  Dead  !  "  repeated  he. 
"  She  ia  not  dead.  She  is  alive  and  well,  and  will 
love  you  dearly,  that  she  will ;  and  so  will  poor  Aunt 
Dorothy.  Come,  we  will  go  there  at  once — how  I 
shall  surprise  them !  Aunt  Dorothy  shall  lay  her 
hand  on  your  head,  and  feel  your  face,  and  then  she 
will  know  how  lovely  you  are." 

"Aunt  Dorothy?"  asked  Marianne,  "of  her  I 
never  heard.'5 

"  I  daresay  you  never  did,"  said  he.  "  She  is 
blind,  poor  thing,  and  thus  is  not  as  active  as  her 
sister  ;  but  she  is  as  good.  You  will  love  her  dearly." 

"  Now  I  shall  go  right  through  the  town,''  said 
he,  "  with  you  leaning  on  my  arm,  and  only  be  sorry 
that  I  cannot  tell  everybody  I  meet  that  you  are  my 
sister."  And  so  he  would  have  done,  had  he  met 
anybody  whom  he  knew ;  but  it  was  one  of  those 
days  when  one  chances  to  meet  nobody,  when  nobody 
seems  to  be  out :  so  he  reached  his  aunts'  door  without 
remark  or  interruption. 

"  N*>w  I  shall  astonish  the  old  ladies,"  said  he, 
rushing  in.  "  Guess  what  I  have  brought  you,"  said 


122  A    CONTRE-TEMPS. 

he,  leaving  Marianne  in  the  outer  room.  The  old 
ladies  were  very  indulgent  to  their  nephew ;  they 
guessed  all  kinds  of  things,  but  could  not  come  near 
the  truth.  At  length  he  went  out,  and  returned  with 
Marianne,  saying,  "  My  dear  aunts,  I  introduce  to 
you  your  niece." 

It  was  a  most  complete  shock — they  thought  that 
he  was  married,  and  that  this  was  his  wife.  "  Your 
wife  ?  "  asked  they. 

"  No,''  returned  he,  "  not  my  wife,  I  wish  it  were, 
but  my  sister,  that  sweet  little  sister  Susan  of  whom 
I  used  to  talk  so  much.  Is  she  not  sweet  and  charm- 
ing, and  does  she  not  look  good  and  loveable  ?  " 

"  Sit  down,  sit  down,  my  dear,"  said  Joanna,  who, 
though  taken  so  by  surprise,  could  not  help  seeing 
how  confused  and  agitated  the  poor  girl  seemed. 

Reynolds,  who  was  quite  vehement  in  his  delight, 
would  not,  however,  let  her  sit  down  till  she  had 
taken  off  her  cloak  and  bonnet,  that  they  might  see," 
he  said,  "  what  a  sweet  little  sister  she  was." 

Poor  Marianne,  more  confused  now  than  ever,  took 
the  seat  which  Joanna  offered  to  her.  She  was  more 
confused  and  agitated  every  moment.  That  Reynolds 
was  her  brother  she  had  never  doubted  for  a  moment; 
but  this  surely  was  not  the  aunt  which  she  had  heard 
described  by  her  mother.  This  aunt  had  never  been 
married  surely !  she  wore  no  wedding-ring.  The  most 
fearful  misgivings  came  over  her  mind ;  she  felt  almost 
faint  with  apprehension.  "  And  where  then  is  Mrs. 
Osbornel  "  asked  she  with  anxious  fear. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Joanna,  "  Mrs.  Osborne  has  been 
dead  these  four  years." 

"  She  was  my  aunt !  I  have  made  some  strange, 
some  frightful  mistake,"  said  she,  rising,  and  ahrosl 


A   CONTRE-TEMPS.  123 

bursting  into  tears.  "  Tell  me,"  she  said,  addressing 
Reynolds,  "  were  you  not  bom  with  the  name  of 
Edwards,  whatever  you  may  now  be  called  ?  " 

"  This  is  the  daughter  of  poor  Mrs.  Edwards," 
whispered  Joanna  to  her  sister,  who,  though  blind, 
took  the  most  lively  interest  in  what  went  forward. 

Reynolds  made  no  reply — a  strange  light  burst  in 
upon  his  mind  also,  and  a  reality  of  happiness  tilled 
his  heart — but  at  that  moment  he  could  not  have 
expressed  it. 

"  Oh,  I  have  made  some  great,  some  frightful  mis- 
take ! "  again  exclaimed  the  poor  girl,  looking  round 
her. 

Joanna  ran,  and  taking  her  hand,  said  with  a  look 
of  infinite  kindness,  "  No,  my  dear,  you  have  made 
no  great  mistake  after  all;  you  are  right  in  one 
respect — you  are  among  kind  friends;  we  were  friends 
of  your  mother's — friends  of  your  aunt's — we  will  be 
friends  also  to  you." 

These  words  were  meant  to  be  consolatory.  Mari- 
anne felt  that  they  were  spoken  in  the  very  spirit  of 
kindness,  but  the  presence  of  the  young  man  troubled 
her  beyond  words ;  she  feared  to  ask  who  he  was, 
and  how  it  was  possible  that  this  mistake  could  have 
been  made  between  them  ;  she  dared  not  lift  up  her 
eyes  to  him.  He  too  was  bewildered  in  his  turn — 
this,  then,  was  not  his  sister,  but  Williams's ;  she  had 
mistaken  him  for  Williams.  The  truth  filled  him 
with  rapture  ;  his  heart  from  the  first  had  told  him 
that  he  wished  in  her  something  dearer  than  a  sister. 
He  almost  shrunk  back  at  the  thought  of  the  fami- 
liarity which  he  had  used  towards  her.  He  saw  how 
she  felt  too  ;  they  stood  Jn  a  very  painful  and  embar- 
rassing relationship  to  each  other.  He  rose,  and  not 


124  A    CONTHE-TEMFS. 

venturing  even  a  glance  at  her,  said  thut  he  would 
leave  the  young  lady  with  his  aunts.  A  cup  of  their 
excellent  tea  would  do  her  good.  In  the  evening  he 
would  return. 

The  quiet  kindness  of  those  amiable  sisters,  on 
whose  every  action  sincerity  was  stamped,  reassured 
the  poor  girl.  They  asked  her  no  questions  regarding 
herself,  but  talked  of  the  bright  young  days  of  her 
mother,  when  they  three  had  been  happy,  thoughtless 
girls  together.  They  spoke  of  her  aunt  and  uncle 
Osborne,  as  her  mother  had  done;  and  when  she 
asked  of  her  brother,  they  told  her  nothing  but  what 
was  good  of  him.  He  had  been  the  companion  and 
friend  of  William  Reynolds,  their  nephew,  for  these 
ten  years  or  more.  Their  nephew  was  the  best  young 
man  in  the  world — on  this  subject  they  never  were 
tired  of  speaking — they  did  not  know  what  an  agony 
it  was  to  the  poor  girl.  At  length,  in  the  fulness  of 
her  heart,  she  told  all  that  had  passed  between  them 
— her  frequent  visits  to  the  shop,  her  hope  of  surpri- 
sing her  father  in  making  themselves  known  to  him, 
and  being  acknowledged  by  him,  (of  his  unsuccessful 
attempts  she  said  nothing,)  and,  now,  what  had  she 
done  ?  claimed  a  wrong  relation — made  herself  appear 
forward  and  ridiculous,  and  all  the  time  he  must  have 
known  how  inapplicable  every  word  she  uttered  was 
to  him.  Oh !  why  had  he  allowed  her  thus  to  commit 
herself — thus  to  betray  her  father's  secret  ? 

The  sisters  could  enter  into  her  feelings — and  to 
show  their  confidence  in  her,  as  well  as  to  excuse 
their  nephew,  they  told  her  what  hitherto  they  had 
told  to  none — that  their  nephew's  early  history  and 
family  connexions  bore  sufficient  resemblance  to  those 
of  her  brother,  to  make  the  mistake  which  had  occur- 


A   CON  IRE -TEMPS.  128 

red  so  easy  at  first.  Thus  they  proved  to  her  that 
they  thought  her  worthy  of  their  confidence.  In 
return  she  gave  them  hers ;  she  told  of  their  life  in 
Australia;  of  her  mother's  goodness  and  industry, 
and  her  father's  hardships  and  sufferings;  how  his 
spirit  was  broken  by  his  disgrace,  and  how  home-sick 
he  was  for  England.  Her  mother  lived  in  a  school, 
and  by  her  services  paid  for  the  education  of  her 
daughter.  She  did  more  than  that — she  gave  daily 
lessons  in  Sydney,  where  they  lived,  and  saved  money. 
Anxiety  and  excessive  labour,  however,  at  length 
preyed  upon  her  health ;  she  had  some  kind  friends, 
and  by  them  her  death  was  made  as  easy  as  possible. 
She  had  no  anxiety  about  her  daughter,  for  many 
desired  to  befriend  her :  her  wish,  however,  was  that 
she  should  return  to  England ;  she  left  written  instruc- 
tions to  her  husband,  with  three  hundred  pounds  for 
this  purpose ;  she  left  her  daughter  as  a  legacy  to  her 
beloved  Aunt  Osborne.  Four  years  after  her  death, 
the  father's  term  of  transportation  expired.  He 
yearned  to  be  back  in  his  native  land,  and,  taking 
his  daughter  and  the  money,  embarked  in  one  of  the 
first  ships  sailing  for  London. 

"  In  England,"  said  his  daughter,  "  he  flattered 
himself,  that,  broken-down  though  he  was  in  spirit 
and  constitution,  he  could  begin  a  new  career.  On 
the  voyage  he  spoke  with  the  utmost  impatience  of 
re-union  with  his  son,  of  whom  he  was  very  fond. 
His  nature  was  softened,  rather  than  hardened,  by 
calamity ;  he  often  wept  like  a  child.  He  loved  her," 
she  said,  "  dearly,  and  was  the  most  indulgent  of 
fathers,  and  had  formed,  she  could  not  tell  what 
extravagant  notions  of  her  prosperity  in  England.  II« 
talked  of  London  almost  as  the  nursery  song  docs,  &3 


126  A    CONTRE-TE3IPS. 

if  the  streets  were  paved  with  gold,  Scarcely,  how- 
ever, had  they  landed  in  England,  when  he  returned 
home  to  his  lodgings  almost  on  the  verge  of  despair. 

He  was  again  a  ruined  man,  almost  pcnnyless. 
How  it  happened  she  could  not  tell ;  she  suspected 
that  he  had  fallen  into  the  hands  of  designing  gam- 
blers who  had  robbed  him  of  all.  He  was  in  despair ; 
his  health  gave  way,  and,  at  the  suggestion  of  the 
Kind  woman  with  whom  they  lodged,  she  began  to 
paint  miniatures  and  make  fancy-work.  She  worked 
incessantly,  and  made  a  large  stock  of  things,  which 
she  sold  at  good  prices  to  the  bazaars  and  shops.  A 
fellow-lodger,  who  took  a  great  fancy  to  her  father, 
and  who  supported  himself  by  dealing  in  common 
stationery,  was  then  ill,  and  shortly  after  died,  leaving 
to  her  father  his  little  stock  in  trade,  and  his  recipes 
for  ink  and  sealing-wax.  This  and  her  fancy-work 
and  painting  had  since  then  supported  them.  As 
soon  as  he  was  better  in  health,  and  had  somewhat 
recovered  his  spirits,  they  came  down  here,  intending 
to  make  themselves  known  to  her  mother's  sister;  she, 
however,  was  dead.  And,  then,  as  to  her  brother — " 
poor  Marianne  blushed  deeply — "  yes,  indeed,  what 
a  strange  blunder  she  had  made  !  " 

Such  was  her  narrative  ;  and  the  two  sisters,  even 
the  blind  one,  were  as  much  charmed  with  her  as 
their  nephew  had  been.  Pretty  she  was,  beyond 
words  ;  and  she  was  wise,  and  clever,  and  cheerful- 
hearted,  had  had  sorrow  enough  to  have  bowed  her 
down  to  the  earth,  and  yet  she  was  as  gay  as  a  bird : 
the  truth  was,  there  was  a  well-spring  of  gladness  in 
her  heart,  and  that  was  the  spirit  of  love  that  never 
wearied  in  well-doing.  She  was  a  very  jewel  of  a 
human  being,  and  BO  neat  and  fairy-like  vrithaj,  and 


AGAIN,  OLD  AND  NEW  ACQUAINTANCE.   127 

had  such  pretty  turns  and  ways  with  her  that  were 
quite  natural  to  her,  and  looked  so  arch  and  good- 
tempered,  that  it  put  one  in  humor  with  life  and 
one's-self,  only  to  look  at  her.  She  was  a  perfect 
mistress  of  the  art  of  pleasing — it  was  born  to  her, 
and  therefore  it  was  so  easy. 

She  stopped  all  night  at  the  Miss  Kendricks.  Their 
little  maid  went  to  Mrs.  Cope's  to  say  so,  and  to  bring 
her  night-things  ;  and  Reynolds  never  got  home  that 
night  till  the  clock  was  on  the  stroke  of  one. 


CHAPTER  III. 

AGAIN,    OLD    AND    NEW   ACQUAINTANCE. 

We  have  not  now  seen  anything  of  Williams  for 
some  time  ;  not,  in  fact,  for  seven  years.  Time  goes  on 
with  such  strange  rapidity  now-a-days !  Seven  years 
it  is  since  we  saw*either  him  or  Jessie  Bannerman. 
We  will,  first  of  all,  inquire  after  him,  and  know 
something  of  the  workings  of  his  mind,  for,  if  we  are 
not  mistaken,  he  must  in  some  things  be  changed, 
since  we  saw  him  last.  We  have  long  known  his 
growing  aversion  to  trade — there  is  nothing  at  all  re- 
markuble  in  that.  But  as  concerns  Jessie,  we  must 
make  some  inquiries.  This,  then,  is  what  regards  her. 

When  all  that  great  affair  of  the  players  occurred, 
his  acquaintance  with  Jessie  came  to  the  knowledge 
of  the  Osbornes,  and  the  painful  circumstances  re- 
garding their  nephew  that  came  to  their  knowledge 
with  it,  caused  them  to  imagine  the  worst  things  of 
Jessie.  It  was  in  vain,  when  he  had  confessed  his 
love-engagement,  that  he  tried  to  place  her  character 
in  its  true  light.  They  could  not,  and  did  not, 
believe  what  he  said.  They  regarded  her  as  the  most 


128         AGAIN,    OLD    AND    NEW    ACQUAINTANCE. 

designing  and  artful  of  intriguantes,  only  the  mote 
detestable  because  she  had  worn  the  mask  of  innocence 
and  virtue.  Williams  yielded  to  the  storm  against 
her.  The  storm  blew  over  ;  the  sunshine  of  his  good 
relation's  favour  again  fell  upon  him.  The  time  of 
his  apprenticeship  expired ;  he  was  sent  into  the 
world  to  look  about  him,  not  to  labour.  Poor  Mrs. 
Osborne's  health  began  to  give  way,  however,  and 
then  he  was  recalled;  her  husband  had  not  a  thought 
for  anything  but  her ;  they  took  their  adopted  son 
with  them,  and  went  from  place,  to  place  to  regain, 
if  possible,  her  health.  She  grew  only  worse  and 
worse,  and  died,  blessing  her  nephew  for  haying  given 
up  his  inclinations  to  please  her.  In  reality,  however, 
he  had  not  given  up  his  inclinations  from  any  sense 
of  duty;  he  had  only  become  indifferent  about  them 
He  had  begun  to  look  back  to  the  days  of  his  ac- 
quaintance with  Jessie,  and  his  jealousy  of  Tom 
Bassett,  as  of  days  which  it  was  as  well  to  forget; 
not  but  that  certain  uneasy  qualfhs  came  over  his 
heart  when  he  thought  of  the  fair  Jessie,  and  his 
plighted  faith  to  her.  But  sufficient  for  the  day  is 
the  evil  thereof,  thought  he,  and  left  it  to  care  for 
itself.  The  appointed  day  at  length  came — the  fifth 
anniversary  of  that  strange  Christinas  day  at  Alton, 
and  he  had  curiosity  enough  to  inquire  at  the  Post- 
office  if  there  were  a  letter  for  him.  There  was  a 
letter  from  Jessie,  and  it  ran  thus : — 

"  Punctually  at  the  time  fixed  I  now  write.  A 
few  words  are  enough.  I  will  deal  candidly  with 
you.  Life  has  gone  variously  with  me  since  we 
parted.  I  have  now  nothing  more  valuable  to  oft'er 
you  than  love  and  gratitude.  Wealth,  however,  in 
comparison  of  these  treasures  of  life,  is  mere  dust, 


AGAIN,    OLD    AND    NEW    ACQUAINTANCE.        129 

Are  you  ready  and  willing  to  fulfil  your  engagement? 
I  have  been  true  to  you.  If  there  be  a  moment's 
doubt  oil  your  mind,  you  are  free.  J.  B." 

Such  was  her  letter,  Williams  sat  and  pondered. 
It  troubled  him ;  but  then  could  he  really  marry, 
and  bring  home  as  his  wife,  that  girl  against  whom 
so  much  had  been  said?  No,  he  never  could  !  besides, 
what  would  his  uncle  say? — what  would  Mrs.  Proctor, 
what  would  everybody  say  ?  It  was  a  very  silly  affair 
altogether — a  boyish  folly.  People  could  not  live  on 
love  and  gratitude ;  if  there  were  plenty  of  motley, 
it  would  be  a  different  affair.  No,  no,  he  must  put 
an  end  to  it  at  once. 

He  wrote.  His  letter  might  have  served  as  a 
model  for  the  Complete  Letter- Writer.  He  spoke 
most  feelingly  of  the  death  of  his  aunt,  of  his  sense  of 
duty  to  her,  of  the  force  of  circumstances,  of  his  own 
future  and  present  dependence  on  his  uncle,  of  the 
sacrifice  lie  had  been  compelled  to  make  of  his  feel- 
ings, of  his  umvorthiness  of  her,  of  tho  certainty 
that  she  would  meet  with  one  much  more  deserving; 
in  short,  the  letter  said,  as  plainly  as  letter  could  say, 
that,  to  use  a  common  phrase,  he  desired  to  wash  his 
hands  of  the  whole  thing. 

He  heard  no  more  from  her.  She  sent  no  letter 
of  reproach  or  remonstrance ;  and  he  began  to 
congratulate  himself  on  having  so  well  got  rid  of  the 
connection. 

Not  long  after  this,  his  uncle's  death  left  him  very 
unexpectedly  possessed  of  so  handsome  a  legacy  as 
gave  him  quite  another  position  in  life.  He  began  to 
take  ambitions  views,  but  still  he  was  man  of  the 
world  enough  to  bear  his  greatness  with  a  very  philo- 


ISO         AGAIN,    OLD  AND    NEW    ACQUAINTANCB. 

sophical  calmness,  and  had  it  been  twenty  time"?  the 
sum,  he  would  have  done  the  same.  What  infinite 
folly  seemed  now  all  his  connection  with  players  and 
all  such  low  people  !  It  seemed  to  him  a  merciful 
deliverance  to  have  done  with  Jessie  Bannerman. 

He  renewed  his  acquaintance  with  Tom  Basseit, 
who  was  now  a  prosperous  lawyer,  living  on  the 
sunny  side  of  life,  in  the  pleasant  little  town  oi 
Burton-on-Trent.  Tom  was  a  very  prosperous  man, 
and  had  just  married  the  daughter  of  a  rich  country 
gentleman.  A  prosperous  country  banker  too  was 
the  elder  brother,  with  a  fine  country-seat  as  well  as 
his  house,  in  the  county-town.  The  Bassets  were 
people  with  whom  it  was  creditable  to  associate,  and 
with  them  Williams  talked  of  investments  and  pur- 
chases. He  began  to  turn  his  mind  to  the  buying  of 
a  country-house.  Though  his  name  was  the  first  in 
the  firm,  and  stood  in  great  gold  letters  over  the 
shop- door,  he  was  very  rarely  now  at  the  shop — came 
now  and  then  as  a  convenience — dined  there  and 
slept  there  occasionally,  but  passed  most  of  his 
time  in  a  lovely  cottage  ornee,  which  he  had  taken 
furnished,  by  the  month,  near  Burton. 

Williams  cultivated  the  Bassetts' acquaintance  with 
more  zeal  than  they  his.  All  at  once,  however,  the 
lawyer  became  very  zealous ;  it  had  occurred  to  him 
that  the  family  might  make  use  of  him  on  a  particu- 
lar occasion.  Williams  talked  often  of  buying  a  small 
estate,  with  a  good  house  upon  it.  The  Bassetta 
had  one  to  sell.  It  had  belonged  to  the  late  Mrs. 
Bassett  :  it  was  the  property  of  the  daughter,  who 
now  occupied  it,  but,  finding  it  lonely  during  the 
•winter,  she  wished  to  leave  it.  Her  brothers  advised 
her  to  sell  it,  and  invest  the  money  in  railroad  shares, 


AGAIN,    OLD    AND    NEW    ACQUAINTANCE.          131 

which  would  pay  much  better  interest.  Williams 
\VM  just  the  purchaser  they  wanted,  one  who  had 
plenty  of  money,  and  wanted  to  lay  some  of  it  out. 
They  were  charmed  with  the  thought,  and  nothing 
could  exceed  the  lawyer's  friendliness.  Tire  next 
time  Williams  talked  of  investing  some  of  his  money 
in  the  purchase  of  a  small  estate,  Bassett  suddenly 
recollected  that  his  sister  might  be  induced  to  sell. 
Nothing  in  the  world  could  be  more  desirable  than 
her  place,  it  was  just  what  he  wanted — in  excellent 
condition,  neither  too  large  nor  too  small,  with  just 
the  right  quantity  of  land— a  thorough  gentleman's 
place.  Williams's  wishes  were  excited  ;  and  then  he 
was  informed  that  the  sister  was  willing  to  sell ;  he 
might  see  the  place;  he  should  take  a  note  to  her  the 
next  day. 

"  He  '11  bite  ! "  said  Tom  Bassett,  chuckling  to 
himself,  and  thinking  that  he  had  managed  it  famous- 
ly. A  word,  now,  respecting  the  lady  herself.  She 
was  older  than  her  brother,  was  in  fact  two-and- 
thirty,  a  really  good,  excellent  creature,  who,  if  she 
looked  as  old  as  she  was,  made  you  forget  everything 
but  how  good  she  was.  She  was  spoken  of  in  her 
own  neighbourhood  as  something  quite  uncommon. 
She  had  a  school  for  the  poor  children,  which  she 
superintended  herself  every  day;  she  visited  the  poor, 
lent  them  good  books,  and  befriended  them  in  a 
hundred  ways ;  she  was  just  the  person  calculated 
for  a  country  clergyman's  wife.  Her  brother  had  a 
husband  in  view  for  her,  and  desired  nothing  more 
than  to  get  her  away  from  her  cottage  in  Needwood 
Forest,  where,  he  said,  she  buried  herself  ali^e.  He 
wanted  her  to  marry  a  man  who  was  willing  to  marry 
her,  and  who  would  have  the  means  of  putting  busi- 


132         AGAIN,    OID    AND    NEW   ACQUAINTANCE. 

ness  in  his  brother-in-law's  hands.  She  was  a  very 
strictly  religious  lady,  too,  and,  some  people  said,  had 
but  little  charity  with  the  shortcomings  of  others— 
but  they  might  be  wrong,  and  we  think  they  were. 
The  note  of  introduction  which  Williams  brought 
from  her  brother,  insured  him  quite  a  friendly  recep- 
tion ;  she  ordered  luncheon  in  for  hun,  and  then  led 
him  over  her  grounds,  showed  him  her  shrubbery- 
walks,  and  her  rockery,  and  her  grotto,  and  hei 
BU miner-house,  and  her  little  pond  with  water-lilies, 
and  her  little  greenhouse,  and  all  her  geraniums  and 
her  fuchsias  and  cape-heaths,  and  heaven  knows  what, 
growing  in  little  heart-shaped  beds,  and  standing  on 
elegant  green  stages  and  rustic  flower-stands ;  they 
sat  down  together  on  garden-seats  side  by  side,  and 
she  pointed  out  views  to  him  which  he  admired;  they 
looked  into  the  kitchen-garden,  and  talked  about 
marrowfat  peas,  and  the  best  mode  of  growing  toma- 
toes ;  they  peeped  together  into  the  melon-frame, 
and  she  gathered  a  melon  which  he  carried  into  the 
house.  It  is  astonishing  how  friendly  they  became 
in  that  short  time.  Then  they  came  into  the  house, 
and  he  was  taken  into  the  nice  little  breakfast-room, 
where  were  her  books  ;  and  the  dining-room,  and  the 
little  boudoir — it  was  too  small  for  a  drawing-room 
—where  stood  her  harp,  and  her  piano,  and  again  her 
flowers ;  and  there  were  pictures  of  herself  smiling 
on  the  walls,  here  with  her  hair  cut  short,  and  in  a 
prim  white  frock  and  pink  sash,  a  demure  little 
school-girl ;  and  there  at  eighteen,  fresh  as  a  rosebud. 
Williams  thought  to  himself  what  a  wonder  it  was 
that  she  was  not  married  at  eighteen.  After  he  had 
gone  through  the  house,  he  went  to  take  his  leave  of 
her,  but  he  did  not  take  his  leave;  they  sat  and 


AGAIN,    OLD    AND    NEW    ACQUAINTANCE.         133 

talked  ;  then  he  had  forgotten  some  little  particular 
about  the  garden-fence  ;  he  begged  again  to  sec  it  ; 
the  afternoon  was  ciarming — it  was  a  long  way  to 
the  end  of  the  garden — he  feared  he  might  lose  his 
way;  it  was  very  polite  of  her  indeed — she  put  on  her 
bonnet  and  shawl,  and  walked  with  him  again.  All 
along  those  winding  walks  they  went,  on  grass  as 
smooth  as  velvet,  and  passed  first  one  flower-stand  and 
then  another,  up  by  the  rockery  and  pool  of  water-lilies, 
till  they  reached  the  very  end  of  the  garden — and  there 
they  sat  down  in  the  summer-house.  Miss  Bassett 
was  older  than  her  visitor;  he  was  her  brother's 
friend,  so  they  felt  quite  at  ease  one  with  another, 
and  the  end  of  all  this  walking  and  talking  was,  that 
Williams,  instead  of  negotiating  about  the  purchase  ot 
the  place,  made  her  an  offer  of  marriage — she  had 
fifteen  thousand  pounds  beside  the  place — he  made 
her  an  offer  of  marriage,  and  was  accepted. 

He  felt  that  he  had  done  a  good  day's  work — 
he  never  was  so  well  satisfied  with  himself  before. 
He  mounted  his  horse,  and  rode  home,  not  to  his 
cottage  at  Burton,  but  to  the  shop.  The  side  parlour, 
where  in  former  days  his  uncle  and  aunt,  good,  quiet 
people,  had  passed  their  time,  and  received  their 
friends,  was  now  his  own  particular  room.  Nobody 
entered  it  without  his  permission,  and  there  he  trans- 
acted his  private  business  :  and  there,  as  he  sat  that 
evening,  in  a  large  easy- chair,  in  the  pride  of  his 
successful  wooing,  never  dreaming  of  his  father,  came 
that  father,  for  the  first  time,  to  claim  his  love  and 
his  compassion.  Had  Mr.  Osborne  risen  from  the 
dead  to  snatch  from  him  his  twenty  thousand  pounds 
of  legacy,  the  shock  could  hardly  have,  been  greater 
than  it  was,  when  that  man,  who  seemed  to  belong  to 


134         AGAIN,    OLD    AND    NEW    ACQUAINTANCE 

the  class  of  genteel  beggars,  or  broken-down  trades* 
men,  stepped  forward,  and  in  words  almost  inarticulate 
from  emotion,  said  in  a  hollow  voice,  "  William  { 
my  son  !  I  am  your  father ! " 

It  might,  or  it  might  not,  be  so — the  stranger  bore 
no  resemblance  to  his  father,  as  he  remembered  him; 
but,  at  all  events,  the  rencontre  was  unpleasant.  He 
assumed  his  coldest  air  ;  he  seemed  to  disbelieve ;  he 
refused  to  look  at  any  documents  which  the  stranger 
produced ;  he  said  he  had  an  engagement,  looked  at 
his  watch,  and  rose  from  his  chair.  The  father,  who 
was  much  cut  down,  wept ;  and  the  son,  disturbed 
and  displeased,  and  yet  troubled  with  the  apprehen- 
sion that  it  might  be  true,  gave  him  two  guineas,  and 
begged  that  he  might  not  hear  of  him  again;  he 
really  could  not  thus  be  molested — it  was  extremely 
unpleasant. 

The  poor  man  walked  submissively  away ;  he  felt 
in  the  depths  of  his  soul  how  hard  it  is  for  the  poor 
to  take  hold  on  the  souls  of  the  rich.  Again  and 
again  they  met,  and  Williams,  who,  of  all  things, 
saw  how  undesirable  was  such  a  claimant  and  such  a 
connection,  shut  his  heart  against  conviction,  and 
doled  out  relief  as  if  to  a  common  importunate  beggar. 
The  father  grew  angry,  rose  in  his  demands,  talked 
of  an  appeal  to  the  magistrates  to  have  his  claim 
on  his  son  enforced :  and  the  son,  on  his  part,  who, 
however,  would  have  made  any  sacrifice  rather  than 
that  the  thing  should  become  public  at  all,  threatened 
to  have  the  father  prosecuted  as  an  impostor. 

During  these  hard  contests  between  father  and  son, 
the  Bassett  brothers  heard,  with  the  utmost  amaze- 
ment and  vexation,  of  the  engagement  between  their 
eieter  and  Williams.  They  were  fairly  taken  in  their 


AGAIN,    OLD    AND    NEW    ACQUAINTANCE.         135 

own  net,  and  were  only  the  more  angry  from  that 
fact.  Every  argument  now  that  could  be  advanced 
against  Williams  was  brought  forward — his  being, 
as  it  were,  nobody — his  early  connection  with  the 
players — his  shop.  But  those  arguments  had  no 
weight  with  the  lady ;  she  was  not  a  child,  she  said, 
to  be  turned  about  by  the  first  adverse  opinion ;  she 
had  chosen  him  in  the  maturity  of  her  judgment ; 
she  had  no  fear  but  that  he  was  of  honest  descent ; 
and,  in  spite  of  old  scandals,  in  spite  of  the  shop,  it 
was  her  firm  intention  to  unite  herself  to  him.  For 
a  short  time  the  brothers  were  silent;  but  again  they 
came  forward  triumphantly  against  Williams,  full  of 
the  most  fearful  anxiety  for  their  sister.  They  had 
been  making  inquiries — a  rumour  had  reached  them, 
they  were  themselves  convinced  of  the  truth  of  it — 
Williams  was  the  son  of  a  convict  swindler !  the  son 
of  that  Edwards  who  was  transported  sixteen  years 
ago  for  forgery.  He  had  been  adopted  by  the 
Osbornes,  and  did  not  bear  even  his  own  name !  Their 
sister  never  should  marry  the  son  of  a  convict — they 
would  oppose  it  in  every  way — she  might  turn 
Catholic,  and  enter  a  convent,  but  marry  him  she 
never  should. 

Thus  the  brothers  wrote  to  her,  and  at  the  very 
same  time  poor  Edwards  wrote  to  his  son  a  letter 
of  humility  and  prayer.  He  was  ill,  he  said :  his 
daughter  was  wearing  herself  away  over  her  work, 
which  brought  her  no  profit.  If  he,  the  son,  would 
only  allow  them  a  hundred  pounds  a  year,  to  be  paid 
by  a  respectable  banker,  they  would  quit  the  town  for 
ever,  to  live  in  some  quiet,  secluded  place,  where  he 
should  never  hear  of  them  more.  Oh !  for  the  lova 
of  mercy,  would  he  but  do  this  ? 


136        AGAIN,    OLD    AND    NEW    ACQUAINTANCE. 

This  letter  was  returned  unopened  and  unanswered, 
and  it  was  at  this  crisis  that  poor  Edwards,  as  we  have 
Been,  disheartened  and  disappointed,  left  home  with 
his  camlet  bag  for  an  absence  of  two  or  three  days. 
Williams  was  by  no  means  in  an  easy  state  of  mind, 
when  a  letter  came  to  him  from  Miss  Bassett,  which, 
as  we  may  believe,  considerably  agitated  him.  It 
was  short,  but  still  it  said  much.  "  Mere  rank,"  she 
said,  "  was  of  no  value  in  her  mind,  nor  was  great 
wealth;  and,  therefore,  as  he  knew,  she  had  made 
light  of  her  brothers'  objections  against  him  on  the 
score  of  his  being.of  ordinary  birth,  and  connected  with 
trade  :  but  an  unsullied  name  and  a  fearlessly  upright 
character  were  another  thing ;  she  now,  therefore,  put 
it  to  him  solemnly,  as  he  would  answer  before  heaven 
— No ;  she  would  not  put  it  thus,"  she  said,  "  she 
would  merely  put  it  to  his  honour,  to  his  regard  for 
her,  was  he,  or  was  he  not,  the  son  of  that  unhappy 
convict,  Edwards,  who  was  married  to  Miss  Phillips, 
the  sister  of  Mrs.  Osborne?" 

Terror  now  fell  upon  him  strong  as  an  armed  man. 
His  first  thought  was  to  get  his  father  out  of  the  way 
at  any  cost.  He  actually  went  to  Mrs.  Cope's,  and 
asked  to  see  him.  He  was  out — his  daughter  was  out ; 
there  was  nothing  to  be  done  then,  and,  therefore, 
he  sat  down  and  wrote  his  answer  to  the  lady,  whom 
he  was  resolved  not  to  lose.  He  talked  of  malice, 
and  false  friendship,  and  base  attempts  which  were 
made  to  ruin  him  in  her  eyes,  all  which  he  said  he 
defied.  He  deplored  himselfas  the  most  unfortunate 
of  men,  because  having  been  early  left  an  01  phan , 
he  himself  had  not  known  his  parents.  He  pvizod 
an  unsullied  name  as  much  as  she  did,  and  would 
make  one  for  himself.  With  her  love,  and  for  her 


AGAIN,    OLD    AND    NEW    ACQUAINTANCE.        137 

love,  he  could  do  anything  ;  without  it  he  should  be 
the  veriest  outcast  in  the  world !  He  was  not  tht  son 
of  that  unfortunate  man,  Edwards  !  and  he  earnestly 
besought  her  to  close  her  ears  against  that  malice 
which  was  bent  upon  ruining  him.  "  He  felt,"  he  said, 
"  that,  once  united,  they  should  be  happy  ;  till  then, 
endless  plans  would  be  formed  to  separate  them.  Might 
he  beseech  of  her  at  once  to  set  this  malice  at  defiance 
by  allowing  their  marriage  to  take  place  immediately."* 

It  was  a  bold  letter.  He  trembled  as  he  despatched 
it.  The  next  post  brought  him  an  answer.  "  Thank 
you  ;  you  have  taken  a  load  from  my  heart.  I  knew 
that  you  had  not  willingly  deceived  me,  and  I  believe 
you.  But,  Edward,  shall  I  now  confess  my  weakness 
— had  you,  fearing  to  speak  a  falsehood,  even  for  a 
great  reward,  said, '  Yes,  I  am  the  son  of  that  unhappy 
convict,  and  in  reality  I  bear  his  name,' — I  could  not 
have  abandoned  you.  Oh,  my  friend,  you  have  gained 
great  power  over  me — you  are  very  dear  to  me,  and 
I  would  have  stood  by  your  side  to  the  last ;  and  if  the 
world  had  upbraided  you,  it  should  have  upbraided 
me  also.  But,  thank  God,  it  need  not  be  so.  I  will 
be  candid  with  you.  My  brothers  are  extremely 
inveterate  against  you.  Their  consent  to  our  marriage 
will  not  be  obtained,  I  fear.  I  Avish  to  see  you  soon. 
Come  over  for  an  hour  to-morrow." 

There  are  no  reproofs  to  a  heart  not  naturally  bad, 
so  severe  as  those  of  kindness.  Williams  sat  silent 
and  self-accused.  All  his  life  long  it  seemed  to  him 
that  he  had  lived  in  the  midst  of  kindness,  which  ho 
had  ill  requited.  He  thought  of  Jessie  Bannerman — 
oh  how  often  had  Miss  Bassett  reminded  him  of  Jessie 
in  her  calm  truthfulness  !  he  thought  of  his  good 
auut  and  uncle,  how  he  had  cheated  and  deceived 


138         AGAIN,    OLD    AND    NEW    ACQUAINTANCE. 

them.  He  was  a  moral  coward  ;  he  had  not  tha 
courage  to  do  right — and  he  sat  now  humbled  and 
chastised  by  his  conscience.  Oh  that  I  had  dared  to 
speak  the  truth  !  Oh  that  I  had  but  had  the  courage 
to  speak  the  truth — that  I  had  but  had  faith  in  the 
real  greatness  and  goodness  of  her  soul !  I  am  a  liar 
and  a  cheat,  let  me  bear  as  fair  a  face  to  the  world  aa 
J  may,  and  a  day  will  come  when  all  my  falsehood 
will  come  to  light ! 

The  next  day  he  set  off  to  the  Forest  for  the  inter- 
view which  she  desired,  but  not  before  lie  again  made 
inquiries  after  the  lodger  at  Mrs.  Cope's,  but  the 
lodger  was  not  returned,  and,  racked  with  the  appre- 
hension of  something  terrible  hanging  over  him,  lie 
set  out.  He  was  prepared  for  some  dreadful  catas- 
trophe, and  felt  more  like  a  criminal  going  to  judg- 
ment, than  a  lover  on  his  way  to  arrange  with  a 
loving  mistress  for  an  early  marriage.  But  what  whips 
and  stings  has  an  evil  conscience — how  it  torments 
with  everlasting  suggestions ;  suppose  Miss  Bassett 
should  meet  him  with  the  full  knowledge  of  all  hi8 
baseness — suppose  his  father  had  actually  been  with 
her  brothers,  or  herself — suppose  he  should  be  there 
with  her,  and  she  should  confront  them  face  to  face ! 
What  should  he  do  ?  Had  he  not  now  better  go  and 
throw  himself  at  her  feet,  and  confess  all?  Could 
she  indeed  love  him  after  such  a  proof  of  his  weak- 
ness ?  Or  should  he  boldly  adhere  to  his  lie,  and 
dare  all  consequences  ?  He  could  not  tell — he  knew 
not  what  to  do — he  was  like  a  weed  on  the  tempested 
water,  tossed  here  and  there.  A  bitter  curse  is  a  mind 
ever  wavering  between  right  and  wrong!  and  thus- 
miserable,  vacillating, apprehensive,  repentant,  and  yet 
ready  to  commit  fresh  sin  to  save  himself,  he  went  on. 


AGAIN,    OLD    AND    NEW    ACQUAINTANCE.        139 

As  he  rode  slowly  up  through  the  plantations  to 
the  front  of  the  cottage,  a  tall,  but  bending  figure, 
was  slowly  passing  down  a  side  walk  from  the  hack 
premises.  The  rusty,  but  well-preserved  black  suit, 
the  old  hat,  the  blue  camlet  bag,  he  recognised  them 
instantly.  It  was  as  if  a  dagger  had  pierced  through 
his  heart.  He  stopped  his  horse  instantly — he  had 
better  at  once  fly  than  face  her — his  father  had  really 
been  there — had  revealed  all,  no  doubt — he  had  not 
yet  been  seen  from  the  house — there  was  time  to  fly 
—shame  and  terror  overwhelmed  him. 

"  Good  morning,  sir,"  said  the  cheerful  voice  of  the 
gardener.  "  Shall  1  lead  your  horse  up  to  the  stable  ? 
Missis  is  in  the  little  flower-garden." 

The  gardener's  voice  reassured  him,  so  did  his 
words ;  Miss  Bassett  was  in  the  garden — she  had  not, 
then,  seen  his  father.  "  What  a  coward  apprehension 
has  made  of  me  !"  thought  he,  and  rode  up  to  the 
house,  bidding  the  gardener  say  nothing  of  his  being 
come,  and  he  would  join  Miss  Bassett  presently. 

He  was  glad  of  this  respite  to  recover  himself; 
the  servants  received  him  like  a  welcome  guest  at  the 
house ;  servants  by  instinct  learn  the  tone  of  their 
employers'  feelings — he  knew  that  at  present  all  was 
right. 

"  What  did  the  old  man  want,  with  the  blue  bag, 
who  was  here  just  now  ?  "  asked  he. 

"  He  has  left  a  packet  for  the  lady,"  the  servant 
replied. 

"  The  packet  is  for  me — let  me  have  it  instantly," 
eaid  he  in  a  spasm  of  fear.  "  Fly,  quick  !  " 

The  servant,  interpreting  his  impatience  to  be  that 
of  a  lover,  flew  quickly,  as  he  desired,  to  put  into  his 
hand  one  of  those  small  packets  of  stationery  which 


140       AGAIN,    OLD    AND    NEW    ACQUAINTANCE. 

poor  Edwards  carried  about.  "  To  the  inhabitant  of 
this  house,"  he  read  on  the  outside.  Again  there 
seemed  something  pitiful  in  his  fear.  There  was 
nothing  but  innocent  pens,  sealing-wax,  and  wafers, 
inclosed  in  a  wrapper,  on  which  was  printed,  "  All 
these  for  one  shilling.  The  maker,  who  humbly 
solicits  the  benevolent  to  purchase,  will  call  again  to- 
morrow." 

"  The  man  is  poor,  very  poor,"  said  Williams, 
wrapping  up  the  box  again.  "  When  he  calls,  give 
him  this,"  said  he,  giving  the  servant  &  guinea — kl  lie 
is  very  poor,  though  importunately  troublesome ;  bid 
him  not  to  come  here  again,  however  ! " 

Miss  Bassett,  so  far  from  having  any  quarrel  with 
her  lover,  or  any  suspicion  of  wrong  against  him, 
received  him  with  the  most  marked,  yet  delicate  kind- 
ness. Not  one  word  did  she  say  of  the  painful  subject 
of  their  letters,  but  she  spoke  with  tears  of  the  harsh- 
ness and  unkindness  of  her  brothers.  They  had  quar- 
relled with  her — she  had  no  hope  of  reconciliation  with 
them — she  wished  to  leave  the  neighbourhood. 
Williams  proposed  their  immediate  marriage — she 
made  no  opposition — she  felt  as  if  she  had  no  friend 
but  himself.  They  arranged  their  plans  rapidly. 
Williams,  amazed  at  his  own  good  fortune,  was 
quite  at  his  ease.  The  marriage,  it  was  agreed,  should 
take  place,  secretly,  early  in  the  next  week — they 
would  go  at  once  to  London,  and  from  thence  her 
brothers  should  know  that  their  opposition  was 
useless,  and  from  London  they  would  go  to  the  Con- 
tinent, where  they  would  remain  till  the  family  dis- 
plrasure  had  cooled. 

Whilst  thus  arranging  so  agreeably  his  affairs  with 
his  affianced  bride,  his  mind  was  busy  about  his 


THEY  ARE  OFF. THEY  ARE  MARRIED.    141 

father,  and  he  formed  a  plan,  which,  under  the  better 
feeling  inspired  by  the  secret  influence  of  this  excel- 
lent woman,  was  not  without  kindness.  He  gave  a 
sealed  paper  to  the  servant,  which  he  ordered  her 
to  give  to  the  man,  and  then,  after  waiting  to  ascer- 
tain that  it  was  delivered  into  his  hand,  he  took 
.leave  of  his  bride,  to  meet  her  again  only  for  the 
marriage. 

From  the  Forest  Lodge  he  went  to  the  Three 
Queens,  in  Burton,  where,  as  lie  expected,  the  poor 
man  with  the  camlet  bag  was  not  long  in  making  his 
appearance  also.  They  had  a  long  interview,  wliu-li 
ended  apparently  most  amicably.  They  both  left 
Burton  that  night — Edwards  by  one  coach,  and  his 
son  by  another. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THEY  ARE  OFF. THEY  ARE  MARRIED. 

IT  was  two  days  after  this  before  he  reached  home. 
He  came  by  the  Birmingham  coach,  but  he  was  so 
entirely  his  own  master,  that  nobody  ever  thought 
of  asking  wherefore  he  had  been  there.  Reynolds, 
however,  who  had  been  looking  for  him  every  hour 
since  the  discovery  he  had  made  regarding  his  sister, 
met  him  at  the  shop-door  with  that  sort  of  impatient 
good-news  countenance,  which  seems  to  say,  "  Here  I 
am  !  ask  me  what  I  have  got  to  tell ! "  But  Williams 
did  not  ask,  and  at  last  Reynolds,  who  could  contain 
no  longer,  invited  him  to  a  private  conference,  and 
then  began  in  a  low  voice  of  the  most  heartfelt  joy — 
"  I  say,  my  good  fellow,  do  you  know  that  your  sister 
is  hi  this  town  ?  The  most  beautiful  little  angel  that 
ever  was  seen,  and  as  good  as  she  is  beautiful !  And 

9 


142        THEY   ARE   OFF. — THEY    ARE   MARRIED. 

do  you  know,"  added  he  in  a  more  measured  tone, 
"  that — your  father  is  here  too  1 " 

Williams  turned  pale  as  death,  and  Reynolds  attri- 
buting this  to  shame  regarding  his  father's  disgrace, 
wished  he  only  knew  how  to  show  his  good  and  kind 
intentions.  "  I  am  sure,  my  dear  fellow,"  he  began, 
"  if  I  were  in  your  place,  1  would  not  let  it  trouble 
me  a  bit ;  the  world  need  not  know  anything  about 
it ;  and  to  make  you  quite  at  ease  with  me  on  the 
subject,  I  will  confess  something  to  you.  I  too  have 
had  sorrow  in  my  family,  and  deeper  sorrow  than 
yours,  for  here  is  your  father  come  back,  with  time, 
and  opportunity,  and  willingness  to  retrieve  his 
character  in  life.  My  poor  father,  alas,  had  not  time 
hardly  to  repent.  You  and  I  are  old  friends ;  there 
need  be  no  secrets  between  us,  though  nobody  else 
need  know  about  your  poor  father — nobody,  indeed, 
ever  dreams  that  this  is  your  father — nohody  but  Miss 
Kend  ricks  and  myself." 

"  What,  in  the  fiend's  name,  does  all  this  mean  ? " 
demanded  Williams,  again  assaulted  on  this  fearful 
subject  from  a  quarter  where  he  least  expected  it. 

"  What  does  it  mean  ?  "  repeated  Reynolds,  quite 
taken  aback.  "  Why,  that  your  father  is  come  back, 
and  that  your  sister  is  here,  and  that  my  aunt 
Kendricks  can  see  in  her  a  strong  likeness  to  your 
mother." 

Reynolds  had  never  in  his  life  before  mentioned  to 
Williams  suspicions  of  his  parentage,  and  he  now  said, 
"  I  *ve  known  it  long,  Williams,  that  Edwards  was 
your  father,  and  it 's  no  use  trying  to  impose  upon 
me  ;  nor  really,  if  you  knew  me,  would  you  think  it 
needful  to  try;  so  let,  us  deal  openly  with  one 
another — here  are  your  father  and  sister." 


"THEY    ARE   OFF. THEY   ARE   MARRIED.        143 

"They  arc  impostors,"  interrupted  Williams,  in  a 
low,  but  firm  voice.  "Arch  impostors;  and  don't 
you  go  and  let  your  good-nature  believe  every  artful 
lie  that  is  told  you.  They  are  impostors,  I  tell  you; 
I  have  seen  him,  and  I  am  mistaken  if  he  be  not  off 
pretty  handily." 

"  And  .do  you  actually  pretend  not  to  believe  it  ?  " 
cried  Reynolds,  growing  quite  warm.  "  I  appeal  to 
your  conscience,  Williams,  whether,  in  the  face  of 
heaven,  you  dare  to  disown  them.  They  are  not 
impostors,  and  that  you  know  !  How  dare  you,  with 
your  plenty, — or  even  if  you  had  to  slave  for  your 
daily  bread  it  would  be  the  same  thing, — how  dare  you 
cast  your  father  into  poverty,  perhaps  into  crime,  and 
what  is  ten  thousand  times  worse,  cast  that  lovely 
creature,  your  own  sister,  who  is  pure  as  the  very 
stars  of  heaven,  friendless  upon  the  world  ?  I  will 
stand  between  you  and  your  pride,  Williams,  if  pride 
it  be,  or  your  false  shame,  or  want  of  moral  courage, 
or  whatever  it  is,  and  force  you  to  do  them  right ! 
They  are  your  own  flesk  and  blood,  and  as  you  hope 
for  the  blessing  of  God  on  your  own  life  and  under- 
takings, be  just  to  them." 

Williams  heard  all  in  gloomy  silence,  and  .then 
inquired  where  he  had  seen  "  these  people." 

Reynolds  related  what  had  occurred  between 
Marianne  and  himself,  and  showed  how  the  peculiar 
circumstances  of  his  own  early  life  had  rendered  him, 
as  it  were,  innocently  a  party  in  the  misunderstand- 
ing; he  told  how  pleased  his  aunt  Kendricks  had 
been  with  her,  and  how  they  had  kept  her  at  their 
house  for  one,  if  not  two,  nights. 

A  peculiar  smile  passed  over  Williarms's  counte- 
nance, which  Reynolds  could  not  understand.  "  What 


144   THEY  ARE  OFF. THEY  ARE  MARRIED. 

a  fool  the  girl  must  be,  if  this  be  not  a  double- dyed 
piece  of  artifice,"  said  he.  "  And  how  famously  you 
have  been  imposed  upon ! " 

With  these  words  he  left  him,  and  Reynolds, 
burning  with  indignation  at  what  he  felt  to  be  his 
cold-blooded  pride,  felt,  nevertheless,  an  uncom- 
fortable query  in  his  own  heart — "  And  can  1,  after 
all,  have  been  duped  ?  " 

"No!  no!  no  !"  said  every  sense  of  honesty  and 
sincerity  in  his  own  breast.  "  As  soon  would  I 
disbelieve  the  sun  in  heaven  as  that  girl."  He  was 
sure  he  was  right,  and,  within  half  an  hour,  set  off  to 
Mrs.  Cope's,  to  see  both  father  and  daughter.  He  was 
bent  upon  obtaining  from  them  such  evidences  as 
Williams  should  not  gainsay.  He  knew  enough 
of  Williams  to  believe  him  capable  of  prevarication 
and  falsehood,  but  he  had  great  faith  also  in  the  good 
that  was  in  him,  and  on  that  he  resolved  to  work — in 
the  meantime  he  must  see  these  two — he  wanted  to 
see  father  and  daughter  together,  to  question  and 
cross-question,  to  know  how  they  were  in  health,  to 
cheer  up  their  spirits,  in  short,  he  was  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life  in  love — he  wanted  to  see  his  mistress. 

Williams  on  his  part  did  not  trouble  himself  about 
them.  He  had  plenty  of  business  of  other  kinds  on 
his  hands.  He  was  busy  about  his  marriage.  He 
wrote  to  his  banker,  to  his  lawyer,  and  to  his  tailor  ; 
there  was  a  world  of  business  to  be  done  in  the  next 
few  days. 

Great  was  Reynolds's  astonishment,  and  almost 
horror,  when,  on  passing  the  little  parlour  window 
at  Mrs.  Cope's,  he  saw,  instead  of  the  miniatures,  and 
profiles,  and  pretty  bags  and  rugs,  which  were  usually 
arranged  there — two  caps  on  wooden  stands,  and  two 


THEY    ARE    OFF. — THEY    ARE    HARRIED.         145 

pieces  of  printed  cotton,  and  one  of  shot -silk,  which 
were  in  progress  of  gown-making.  Mrs.  Cope  was  in 
possession  of  her  little  parlour  again ;  her  lodgera 
•were  gone ! 

"  What :  was  he  in  your  debt  for  sealing-wax  and 
ouch  things?  "  asked  Mrs.  Cope,  in  reply  to  Rcynolds's 
sudden  exclamation  at  hearing  that  they  left  the  day 
before. 

"  Where  are  they  gone  ?  "  he  inquired. 

Mrs.  Cope  could  not  tell ;  it  seemed  all  a  sudden 
thing ;  the  old  gentleman  had  come  home  after  being 
away  for  three  days.  He  seemed  very  poorly  and 
out  of  spirits  when  he  went,  but  when  he  came  back 
he  was  quite  another  person ;  he  sent  out  for  half 
a  pound  of  cheese,  a  beefsteak,  and  a  pot  of  porter, 
and  had  a  good  supper.  He  seemed  to  have  plenty 
of  money ;  he  was  up  all  night  packing  up  his  things. 
The  daughter  was  not  half  as  cheerful ;  she  sat 
painting  at  those  things  for  Mrs.  Bishop,  and  sweet 
pretty  things  they  were.  Mrs.  Cope's  girl  took  them 
home.  Mrs.  Bishop,  she  said,  wanted  something  else 
painted,  and  she  wished  her  to  go  there,  and  then  she 
would  pay  her  for  them  all  together.  The  father,  how- 
ever, would  not  let  her  go,  nor  somewhere  else,  where 
she  wanted  to  go,  end  she  cried  even — but  the  old 
gentleman  was  angry,  and  would  not  let  her.  He 
said  there  was  not  time.  He  said  that  he  had  met 
with  a  friend,  and  that  they  must  meet  him  that  day 
— so  they  went  by  coach  to  Lichfield,  he  outside,  and 
she  in.  She  seemed  quite  down-hearted  at  going,  and 
said  that  Mrs.  Cope  must  take,  for  her  own  trouble,  the 
guinea  and  a  half  which  Mrs.  Bishop  owed,  and  she 
had  left  a  bag  worked  with  beads,  and  a  very  pretty 
bunch  of  wax  roses  for  Miss  Kendricks,  with  hef 


14(>    THEY  ARE  OFF. THEY  ARE  MARRIED. 

love,  and  she  should  never  forget  their  kindness. 
Mrs.  Cope  said  that  she  took  shame  to  herself  for  not 
having  been  down  with  them,  but  one  of  her  young 
women  was  ill,  and  she  was  so  full  of  work — but  sho 
meant,  if  she  could  get  a  bit  of  time,  to  take  them 
that  night. 

Reynolds  said  that  he  would  save  her  the  trouble, 
that  he  was  going  to  his  aunt's,  and  would  carry  them 
with  him. 

Mrs.  Cope's  tidings  quite  upset  him — he  thought  of 
Williams'*  words — "  They  are  impostors.  I  have 
seen  him,  and  I  am  mistaken  if  they  are  not  speedily 
off."  Off  they  certainly  were,  and  he  had  no  doubt 
but  that  Williams  had  a  hand  in  it ;  but  that  they 
were  impostors  he  could  not  believe.  His  aunts 
were  of  his  opinion,  and  without  knowing  their 
nephew's  private  reasons  for  anxiety,  seconded  all 
that  he  said  in  behalf  of  their  truth.  It  was  impos- 
sible that  they  could  be  impostors,  the  young  lady 
was  too  much  like  her  own  mother  for  that.  Oh  no ; 
Williams  knew  very  well  where  they  were  ;  he  had 
sent  them  out  of  the  way,  and,  no  doubt,  would 
provide  for  them ;  there  seemed  to  them  nothing  so 
strange  in  his  wishing  them  not  to  appear  just  now. 
Did  not  people  say  that  he  was  paying  his  addresses 
to  Lawyer  Bassett's  sister  ?  They  could  understand 
exactly  how  it  was,  only  they  must  confess  that  he 
need  not  have  told  lies  to  an  old  friend,  like  their 
nephew,  that  he  might  have  known  would  never 
make  mischief  or  betray  him  in  any  way.  But  it  was 
like  Williams,  they  said,  and  they  had  no  right  to  be 
surprised  at  it. 

Reynolds  became  again  easy  in  his  mind,  and 
returned  home  to  prepare  for  the  morrow,  which  wat 


THEY  ARE  OFF. THEY  ARE  MARRIED.    14? 

May- fair  day,  when  they  would  all  be  busy  with 
country  customers.  He  did  not  see  Williams  again 
that  night,  but  he  resolved  on  the  very  first  opportu- 
nity to  place  the  utmost  confidence  in  him  as  regarded 
himself;  to  confess  his  love  for  his  sister,  which  he 
could  not  doubt  being  agreeable  to  him,  and  obtaining 
from  him  a  knowledge  of  their  residence,  to  lose  no 
time  in  making  her  an  offer  of  his  heart  and  hand. 
He  would  by  this  means  prove  to  Williams  how  little 
he  thought  of  the  painful  past  as  regard*  d  his  father 
— nay,  on  his  marriage,  he  would  enter  into  a  bond 
on  behalf  of  his  wife,  to  make  some  provision  for  the 
old  man.  He  would  in  every  way  do  that  which  was 
generous  and  honourable,  and  this  he  would  tell  Wil- 
liams. Nothing  puts  one  in  such  good  humour  witli 
one's-self  and  all  the  world  as  the  intention  of  doing 
something  remarkably  generous,  especially  when  one 
can  serve  one's-self  at  the  same  time.  Jt  was  this 
feeling  which  made  Reynolds  alert  and  cheerful  all 
the  day.  The  country  people  said,  "  What  a  nice 
gentleman  he  was  ! "  He  listened  to  all  kinds  of 
weariful  histories  about  diseases  in  cattle  and  children, 
and  old  folks ;  he  prescribed  for  dry-rot  in  houses, 
and  the  fly  in  turnips ;  ho  did  not  sell  even  a  penny- 
worth of  turmeric  without  a  pleasant  word.  IS  very- 
customer  was  charmed  with  him;  he  "quite  cut 
out"  their  old  favourite,  Mr.  Isaacs,  who  happened  to 
be  rather  out  of  humour  that  day,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed. At  the  end  of  the  day,  Mr.  Reynolds  informed 
his  partner  that  there  never  had  been  such  a  day 
since  he  had  known  the  shop ;  it  had  been  quito 
crowded  all  day  :  and  on  adding  up  the  day's  receipts, 
besides  booking,  it  was  half  as  much  again  as  that 
day  last  year. 


148    THEY  ARE  OFF. THEY  ARE  MARRIED. 

Mr.  Isaacs  said  it  need,  for  that  Williams  had  sud- 
denly called  for  two  hundred  pounds  out  of  the  busi- 
ness, which  he  said  had  worried  him  no  little.  Wil- 
liams was  gone  off  with  a  good  deal  of  luggage,  and  had 
said  that  he  should  not  be  back  at  present,  but  that 
he  would  write.  Here  was  news  of  astonishment  for 
Reynolds !  He  was  gone,  no  doubt,  after  his  father 
and  sister ,  the  two  hundred  pounds  was  for  their 
use ;  he  was  gone  to  settle  them  comfortably  some- 
where ;  he  rose  at  once  fifty  per  cent,  in  his 
young  partner's  estimation  ;  he  was  welcome  to  draw 
two  hundred  pounds  from  the  business ;  Reynolds 
would  almost  have  given  it  to  him.  These  were  his 
thoughts,  and  he  replied  cheerfully  to  his  senior, 
"Well,  I  don't  see  that  we  need  trouble  ourselves 
about  that ;  he  takes  no  part  in  the  business  now,  and 
we  are  just  as  well  without  4im  as  with  him." 

"  But,"  said  Mr.  Isaacs  angrily,  "  it 's  an  unpleasant 
thing  to  have  money  drawn  out  at  a  minute's  warning 
—  to  be  sure  the  firm  has  money  in  the  bank — but 
with  his  twenty  thousand  pounds — and  he  a  bachelor 
—he  should  not  do  it ! " 

"  Here  is  news !"  exclaimed  Reynolds  within  a  very 
few  days,  looking  up  from  the  London  paper  which 
he  was  reading.  "  Now  listen,  Mr.  Isaacs,  and  I 
shall  amaze  you, —  and  he  read — '  On  Saturday,  the 
7th  inst.,  at  St.  George's,  Hanover  Square,  Edward 
Lewis  Williams,  Esquire,  of  Utceter,  to  Emmeline, 
sole  daughter  of  the  late  George  Vernon  Bassett, 
Esquire,  'of  Henshall  Hall,  Staffordshire.'  " 

"  And  he  really  is  married,  is  he  ?  "  exclaimed  the 
old  man.  "At  St.  George's,  Hanover  Square! 
Bless  me ! " 

"  Well,  here's  a  bit  of  news  !"  exclaimed  all  the 


THEY  ARE  OFF. THEY  ARE  MARRIED.    149 

Mrs.  Proctors  and  Mrs.  Morleys  of  Utceter  and  of 
Burton-on-Trent.  "  Here  'a  a  bit  of  news  that  will 
take  a  deal  of  talking  over.  Married  are  they  after 
a  six  weeks'  courtship,  and  she  gone  off  to  London, 
pious  as  she  was  reckoned,  all  on  the  sly,  with  only 
her  maid  ;  why,  it  is  not  much  better  than  being 
married  at  Gretna  Green ;"  and  everybody's  tongue 
was  set  in  motion. 

"  And  she  really  has  married  Mm  after  all ! " 
exclaimed  the  two  brothers  Bassett.  "After  a#,Jias 
married  the  son  of  a  convict !  Well,  we  hope  they '11 
go  abroad,  and  live  abroad  too,  and  never  come  back 
again !" 

"  And  yet,"  said  they  a  week  after  the  first  angwr, 
"  we  must  net  say  anything  about  his  father — for 
the  credit  of  the  family  we  must  not !  And,  seeing 
she  was  determined  to  marry  him,  it  was  almost 
a  pity  that  we  said  so  much — but  after  all  it  was  only 
among  ourselves,  so  there  is  no  great  harm  done — but 
we  wish  to  heaven  that  they  may  live  abroad  alto- 
gether !" 

The  new  Mrs.  Williams  wrote  from  London  to  her 
brother  at  Burton,  and  informed  him  that  it  was  the 
joint  wish  of  herself  and  her  husband  that  the  Lodge 
should  be  now  let  for  a  term  of  years;  that  the  furni- 
ture should  be  sold  by  auction,  and  her  books, 
pictures,  musical  instruments,  &c.,  should  be  depo- 
sited in  the  hands  of  certain  persons  whom  she 
named.  It  was  their  intention,  she  said,  to  be 
absent  for  some  years,  and  she  felt  sure  that  her 
dear  brother,  in  accordance  with  his  usual  kindness 
to  her,  would  transact  this  business  for  them,  and 
it  was  the  wish  of  her  husband  that  he  (the  lawyer) 
should  remunerate  himself  for  all  his  trouMe  out 


160  ANOTHER   OLD   ACQUAINTANCE. 

« 

of    the  rent,  which  might   lie    in    his    hands  till 
called  for. 

It  was  evidently  the  intention  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Williams  to  keep  up  a  good  understanding  with  her 
family ;  the  family  were  satisfied  that  it  should  be  so, 
but,  as  a  means  of  keeping  them  abroad,  they  soon 
found  a  good  tenant,  for  a  term  of  years,  for  the  very 
pretty  Forest  Lodge. 


CHAPTER  V. 

ANOTHER    OLD    ACQUAINTANCE. 

WE  hope  our  readers  are  disposed  to  like  Mrs. 
Williams  ;  she  was  a  good  woman ;  she  had  some  of 
those  sterling  qualities  which  he  had  not,  but  which 
always  in  others  had  a  great  influence  on  him ;  it  is 
strange  to  say  it,  but  it  is,  nevertheless,  true,  her  first 
charm  to  his  feelings  was  that  singular  transparency 
and  evident  truthfulness  of  mind  and  character  which 
he  had  always  felt  so  strongly  in  Jessie  Bannerman. 
They  both  had  the  power  of  awakening  the  better  part 
of  his  nature,  of  producing  in  him,  as  it  were,  an 
acquiescence  to  good.  He  had  deceived  his  wife,  it 
is  true ;  he  had  fallen  into  the  gulf  of  falsehood,  that 
fatal  gulf  which,  it  seemed  to  him,  ever  lay  before 
him.  And  oh,  what  a  bitter  weight  of  self-condemn- 
ation lay  upon  his  soul  for  it ;  how  did  it  come 
between  him  and  his  happiness,  between  her  love  and 
his  peace  of  mind.  "  Would  that  I  had  wist !  "  is  the 
most  painful  expression  of  a  saddened  spirit — for  it 
implies  that  we  have  been  the  fashioners  of  our  own 
anguish. 

We  must  now  see  them  in  London.  All  the  world 
was  then  talking  of  Mademoiselle  Angela.  She  was 


ANOTHKR    OLD    ACQUAINTANCE.  151 

a  young  actress  ;  the  most  beautiful  of  women,  accoixl- 
ing  to  report,  and  the%nost  accomplished  of  actresses 
She  had  been  abroad,  in  Petersburg!!  and  Paris,  and 
had  created  an  extraordinary  sensation  there.  Her 
fame  had  come  before  her  :  people  who  had  seen  her 
abroad  raved  about  her  in  London,  and  now  she  was 
come,  in  the  month  of  May,  in  the  full  blaze  of  the 
London  season,  and  had  at  once  taken  the  heart  of 
the  whole  town.  Her  portraits  were  in  the  windows  ; 
she  set  the  fashion  ia  caps  and  gowns ;  her  voice,  her 
attitudes,  her  smiles  were  the  theme  of  every  one's 
admiration ;  but,  more  than  all,  was  talked  of  her 
beautiful  character.  Her  life,  it  was  said,  had  been 
as  strange  as  a  fairy  tale  ;  she  had  gone  through 
poverty,  hardship,  and  temptation  of  every  kind,  but 
all  had  been  unable  to  tarnish  the  pure  gold  of  her 
nature.  She  was,  fame  said,  the  most  gifted  and  best 
of  human  beings;  people  told  endless  anecdotes  about 
her;  her  life  was  so  pure,  yet  brilliant,  and  people 
were  so  enthusiastic  about  her,  that  one  might  have 
thought  her  sent  down  from  heaven  to  make  goodness 
fashionable. 

Mrs.  Williams,  who  had  from  principle  a  terror  of 
the  stage,  refused,  spite  of  the  entreaties  of  their 
London  acquaintance,  to  attend  the  theatre.  Chance 
had  led  them  among  a  circle  of  people  who  were 
most  theatrically  inclined,  and  who  were  going  to  one 
theatre  or  another  every  night.  Williams,  who  had 
a  strong  desire  to  join  them,  declined,  for  some  time, 
from  regard  to  his  wife.  She  became  aware,  however, 
at  length,  of  the  self-denial  he  had  pi-actised  for  her 
eake,  and  insisted  upon  it  that  he  should  go  to  see  this 
wonderful  phoenix,  of  which  the  world  talked  so 
much.  He  was  to  accompany  a  party,  which  was  lo 


152  ANOTHER  OLD    ACQUAINTANCE. 

occupy  one  of  the  stage-boxes.  The  gentlemen  took 
with  them  bouquets  and  wreatlifc  of  flowers,  to  fling  as 
offerings  at  the  feet  of  the  queen  of  the  night :  rings,  it 
was  said,  and  ornaments  of  great  value,  had  frequently 
been  conveyed  to  her  rect  in  this  way,  and  Mrs.  Wil- 
liams gave  to  her  husband  a  sniall  wreath  of  myrtle 
and  jasmine,  which,  she  said,  if  he  found  her  to  be  as 
beautiful  as  she  was  said  to  be  good,  he  was  to  fling  to 
her  also. 

A  strange,  bewildering,  dieam-like  feeling  came 
over  Williams  as  he  stood  behind  the  row  of  ladies  of 
their  party,  waiting  for  the  drawing  up  of  the  curtain. 
The  orchestra  played  Mozart's  overture  to  Don  Juan. 
His  mind  went  back  to  those  strange,  far-off  days  when 
he  stood  in  the  little  tneatre  at  Utceter,  waiting 
for  the  drawing  up  of  the  curtain,  to  see  her  whom 
he  then  reckoned  the  angel  of  his  life.  Fancy  is 
a  very  powerful  and  a  very  deceptive  thing ;  the  great 
house  seemed  to  dwarf  itself  down  to  the  dimensions  of 
the  little  one — the  gay  audience  were  the  dowdy  gentry 
of  a  country-town.  The  huge  curtain  drew  up,  and 
there,  like  the  glorified  image  of  the  heroine  of  former 
days,  stood  the  splendidly  attired,  and  serenely  beau- 
tiful Mademoiselle  Angela.  The  whole  house  rose, 
and  the  gentlemen  shouted  for  very  enthusiasm  ;  the 
ladies  waved  their  handkerchiefs,  and  the  newspapers 
of  the  next  morning  said  that  nothing  could  exceed 
the  rapture  with  which  the  young  actress  was  received. 

"  I  protest !  '  exclaimed  one  of  the  gentlemen  in 
their  box,  "  that  Williams  has  been  standing  like  a 
mummy  all  this  time." 

Poor  Williams  !  and  there  was  good  reason  why  he 
had  done  so.  A  dizziness  had  come  over  him ;  he 
fancied  that  he  must  have  fainted,  but  nobody  then 


AXOTHER    OLD    ACQl'AlNTANCTfi.  153 

observed  it.  They  said  now  that  he  looked  pale ;  he 
said  that  the  theatre  was  so  hot. 

Everybody  was  engrossed  by  the  piece,  and  he  too 
looked  on.  It  was  Jessie  Bannerman;  he  saw  it 
plainly ;  the  same  being,  who,  sitting  with  him  in 
the  patten-maker's  parlour,  had  told  him  her  sad 
history ;  the  same  who  had  gone  with  him  on  that 
Christmas-day  to  Alton  Towers ;  who  had  made  that 
strange  compact  with  him  of  trial  and  fidelity  for  five 
years ;  the  same  who  had  been  true  to  him  for  five 
years,  and  then  offered  him,  herself,  her  love  and  her 
gratitude,  and  had  been  rejected  by  him ;  and  who, 
with  her  love  and  gratitude,  had  he  but  been  worthy 
of  them,  would  have  conferred  upon  him  wealth, 
splendour,  honour,  the  world's  renown,  only  to  have 
been  allied  to  her. 

The  piece  was  Othello.  And  now  she  came  to  the 
second  scene  of  the  fourth  act,  where  Desdemona,  on 
her  knees  before  Othello,  asserts  her  innocence. 

She  seemed  to  surpass  even  herself;  the  public 
enthusiasm  rose  to  the  highest  pitch ;  flowers  were 
rained  down  from  every  box  near  the  stage,  and  came 
flying  from  pit  and  gallery. 

"  Now,  Williams,  fling  down  your  garland  to  her," 
resounded  distinctly  on  the  stage  from  the  box  above. 
She  cast  her  eye  in  the  direction  of  the  voice  instantly ; 
their  eyes  met,  it  was  but  for  a  moment,  but  to  Wil- 
liams it  seemed  as  if  he  had  shrunk  into  nothing- 
ness before  the  clear,  keen  gaze  of  those  beautiful 
eyes.  He  groaned  inwardly  ;  he  felt  how  little,  how 
mean  he  was  ;  how  wretched,  how  despicable  had 
been  all  his  aims  in  life.  She  rose  higher  and  higher ; 
there  was  a  majesty  in  her  action,  a  thrilling  tone  in 
her  voice  that  crushed  him.  He  felt  at  once  humbled 


354  ANOTHER  OLD   ACQUAINTANCE. 

before  her  ;  he  felt  again,  as  he  had  felt  before,  that 
high  moral  tone  in  her,  which,  combined  with  great 
intellectual  power,  is  the  very  essence  of  the  divine 
nature. 

"  How  omnipotent  is  goodness !  how  godlike  .  " 
he  exclaimed  inwardly.  "  How  could  I  ever  have 
been  worthy  of  her ! " 

He  stood,  and  gazed  upon  her,  and  wept  like  a 
child.  People  seemed  to  take  no  notice  of  him,  they 
were  so  occupied  by  her  and  by  themselves. 

The  theatre-going  world  said  that  she  had  never 
acted  so  well  as  on  that  night. 

This  discovery  of  Jessie  Bannerman  in  the  renowned 
Mademoiselle  Angela  was  not  a  circumstance  calcu- 
lated to  add  to  Williams's  matrimonial  happiness.  He 
drew  invidious  comparisons  between  the  favourite 
actress  and  his  wife,  between  himself  now  and  that 
which  he  might  have  been  had  he  married  her.  He 
was  enraged  with  himself;  called  himself  fool  and 
blockhead,  and  made  himself  very  unhappy. 

At  the  end  of  the  month,  as  had  been  at  first  pro- 
posed, Mrs.  Williams  insisted  on  their  going  to  Paris ; 
she  was  tired  of  hearing  of  Mademoiselle  Angela ;  she 
did  not  like  her  husband  going  so  continually  to  the 
theatre,  where  she  never  accompanied  him ;  according 
to  her  notions  of  things,  it  was  not  right. 

To  Paris,  therefore,  they  went. 

"  Edward,  my  love,"  said  his  wife  to  him  one  day, 
not  long  after  their  arrival  there,  "  will  you  be  my 
father  confessor  ?  " 

"  Can  you,  who  are  so  good,  have  anything  to  con- 
fess ?  "  he  exclaimed. 

"  Listen,"  she  said,  "  and  you  shall  hear.  I  was 
jealous  of  Mademoiselle  Angela."  He  started.  "Nay, 


ANOTHER  OLD  ACQUAINTANCE.         155 

upon  my  word,"  she  said,  "  you  will  make  me  think 
that  I  had  cause.  Mrs.  Moorwood  told  me  of  your 
agitation  when  you  saw  her  first.  You  know  not, 
Edward,"  she.  said,  "  the  anguish  I  have  felt ;  I 
fancied  that  you  were  cold  to  me  ;  I  fancied  that  your 
heart  seemed  turned  from  me — there  is  something  so 
entire,  so  true  in  a  woman's  love,  Edward,  and  I 
was  jealous  of  that  fair  Angela,  who  seemed  to  have 
deprived  me  of  yours  in  return.  Now  I  have  been 
candid  with  yon.  I  have  told  you  my  weakness  ;  let 
there  never  be  suspicion  between  us,  and,  as  a  proof 
that  your  love  is  not  diminished,  tell  me,  was  Made- 
moiselle Angela  known  to  you  before  ? " 

Without  replying,  he  looked  into  his  wife's  face. 
His  first  impulse  was  to  deny  altogether  the  truth  of 
her  suspicion — was  to  deny  any  knowledge  of  the 
actress. 

"  Edward,"  continued  she,  solemnly,  "  answer  me 
truly — love  and  falsehood  cannot  exist  in  the  same 
bosom.  The  happiness  of  our  whole  life  may  depend 
on  this  moment — do  not  deceive  me !  You  have 
loved  Mademoiselle  Angela ! " 

Again  he  felt  that  singular  resemblance  between 
his  wife  and  Angela — that  spirit  of  truth  which,  had 
made  him  submissive  before  the  spirit  of  a  girl 
in  former  years.  He  felt  that,  sustained  by  this 
spirit,  he  dared  to  speak  the  truth,  even  to  his  own 
condemnation. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  you  are  right ;  I  have  loved  her 
— and,  perhaps,  love  her  still ;  but  oh  !  Emmeline, 
since  we  have  thus  spoken,  you  need  not  fear  her. 
Truth  is,  indeed,  a  broad  shield  against  sin.  You 
need  not  fear  her.  I  love  her  less  dangerously,  and 
you  more  truly.  But  you  shall  hear  all."  He  then 


156  ANOTHER    OLD    ACQUAINTANCE. 

related  that  which  the  reader  already  knows, ;  perhaps 
not  in  its  fullest  details — perhaps  disguising  a  little 
of  his  own  weakness — but  still  with  that  sufficient 
adherence  to  truth  as  left  him  guilty.  Emmeline 
sat  with  her  calm  eyes  fixed  upon  him — she  did  not 
speak  one  word  to  interrupt  him. 

"  Thank  you,  my  beloved,"  said  she,  when  he  had 
finished,  and  when,  overcome  by  emotion,  he  sank 
his  face  upon  his  hands,  and  wept.  "  Thank  you, 
from  this  day  forth  a  now  covenant  is  made  between 
us.  We  shall  neither  of  us  err  greatly  while  we 
have  courage  to  face  the  truth.  You  have  given  me 
the  greatest  proof  of  your  love  by  placing  confidence 
in  me.  May  God  Almighty  enable  me  to  make  you 
happy  ! "  She  sank  her  head  on  the  shoulder  of  her 
husband,  and  wept  with  him. 

A  new  era  in  the  life  of  our  married  pair  rnight  be 
dated  from  this  time.  Mademoiselle  Angela  was 
never  mentioned  between  them,  but  she  was  the  bond 
of  their  better  understanding.  One  thing  only  embit- 
tered Williams's  life;  that  was  his  falsehood  regarding 
his  father.  Often  and  often  he  was  on  the  point  of 
confessing  the  whole  terrible  truth,  and  his  own  cul- 
pable weakness,  but  then  he  dared  not ;  she  seemed 
so  happy,  she  had  such  faith  in  him,  the  knowledge 
of  this  must  blast  all.  It  lay  like  a  festering  sore  on 
his  soul,  and  led  him  only  into  new  difficulties  and 
deceptions.  He  dreaded  the  arrival  of  letters ;  his 
wife  showed  him  all  hers,  and  seemed  to  expect  the 
same  from  him.  She  was  one  of  those  clear-headed, 
straightforward  women  who  have  a  capacity  for 
business;  she  took  the  management  of  all  their  pre- 
sent affairs  into  her  hands,  and  her  husband,  who 
had  a  decided  distaste  for  business  of  every  kind, 


ANOTHER    OLD    ACQUAINTANCE.  Ifl'/ 

waa  quite  willing  that  she  should  do  so.  But 
now  and  then  came  letters  which  she  must  not 
see.  Reynolds  wrote  to  him,  begging  most  urgently 
for  the  address  of  that  person  who  called  him- 
self Jervis ;  why  he  wanted  it,  he  did  not  say, 
but  stated  merely  that  it  was  on  a  matter  of  vital 
importance  to  himself.  This  letter  put  Williams  in 
a  state  of  the  greatest  uneasiness  ;  for  what  purpose 
could  Reynolds  want  the  address  ?  Were  the  Basse  tts 
reviving  the  old  subject?  Was  Reynolds  himself  going 
to  meddle  in  it?  He  wrote  back  a  short  reply.  He 
knew  nothing  of  the  person  calling  himself  Jervis, 
farther  than  that,  to  prevent  the  circulation  of 
reports  unpleasant  to  himself,  he  had  caused  -him 
to  remove  to  Birmingham.  Reynolds  must  re- 
member that  he,  Williams,  had  always  considered 
him  an  impostor. 

Next  came  a  letter  from  Williams's  father.  He 
had  obtained  the  address  from  the  banker  in  London, 
who  was  empowered  to  pay  his  allowance.  He  wrote 
from  Bath,  whither  he  had  removed  from  Birming- 
ham, in  consequence  of  the  illness  of  his  daughter. 
He  had  been  obliged  to  consult  physicians  for  her ; 
her  illness  was  expensive  to  him.  He  must  trouble 
his  son  for  a  further  advance  of  money  to  meet  this 
exigency. 

This  letter,  even  more  than  the  former,  discom- 
posed him,  and,  to  silence  this  most  fearful  of  corre- 
spondents, he  sent  him  an  order  on  his  banker,  not, 
however,  without  forbidding  any  further  application 
to  himself;  and  to  his  banker  he  also  wrote,  forbid- 
ding his  address  in  future  being  furnished  to  tliis  hit 
annuitant. 


IBS  ANOTHEK   OLD    ACQUAINTANCE; 

After  this,  Williams  changed  his  lodgings,  and  did 
not  in  future  allow  his  letters  to  come  to  his  resi- 
dence. Early  in  the  next  year  he  removed  from 
Paris  to  Vienna. 

On  the  second  day  of  their  being  in  this  city,  and 
whilst  yet  at  the  inn,  one  of  those  singular  coinci- 
dences occurred  which  are  by  no  means  as  unfrequent 
as  some  persons  imagine.  They  dined,  as  is  custom- 
ary, in  a  public  room,  where  many  persons  were 
dining  at  separate  tables.  A  party  of  gentlemen  sat 
at  a  table  beside  them  ;  they  were  English,  and  were 
ta  king  loudly.  One  of  them  was  a  Mr.  Burndale,  of 
London,  a  banker,  and  the  conversation  was  about 
forgeries,  when  Mr.  Burnaaie  .ras  appealed  to 

"  By  the  bye,  Burndale,"  said  one  of  the  gentlemen, 
"  is  it  true  that  that  fellow,  Edwards,  whom  you 
transported  some  sixteen  or  eighteen  years  ago,  for  a 
forgery  on  your  bank,  is  come  back,  and  has  opened 
some  sort  of  eating-house  or  tavern  at  the  West  End  ?M 

Long  before  thus  much  had  been  said,  Williams 
felt  as  if  the  soup  which  he  was  eating  would  choke 
him.  His  wife,  too,  had  heard  what  \vas  said,  and 
was  almost  as  much  agitated  as  himself;  for  she  knew 
that,  this  was  the  man  with  whom  her  brothers  had 
connected  her  husband. 

"•  Are  you  not  well,  love,"  said  she,  tenderly ; 
"  shall  we  leave  the  room  ?  " 

He  was  not  unwell,  he  said  hastily,  and  called  for 
wine,  and  the  gentlemen  went  on :  "  Yes,  it  was 
quite  true ;  he  was  come  back ;  somebody  had 
advanced  him  money,  and  he  had  actually  opened  a 
tavern  or  gaming-house,  or  something  of  the  kind ;  it 
was  astonishing,"  they  said,  "  how  some  people  got 
on  through  life." 


ANOTHER   OLD    ACQUA:NT>NCE.  15k 

Williams  drank  wine  and  made  the  most  violent 
efforts  to  look  composed,  and  to  a  great  degree  he 
succeeded.  His  wife  remembered  what  had  passed 
between  them  on  the  subject  before  their  marriage, 
and  his  agitation  appeared  natural ;  she  began  a  most 
cheerful  conversation  with  him,  and  used  every  effon 
in  her  power  to  drive  away  all  unpleasant  thoughts. 

The  next  day  they  left  the  inn.  Mrs.  Williams 
was  expecting  to  become  a  mother  in  a  few  months  j 
they,  therefore,  took  a  suite  of  rooms  for  the  sumnfer, 
intending  before  winter  to  remove  to  Florence,  where 
they  proposed  taking  up  their  abode. 

One  thought  for  ever  haunted  Williams,  and  thai 
was  his  father,  and  the  discovery  which,  sooner  or 
later,  his  wife  would  make.  He  loved  her  extremely ; 
Mademoiselle  Angela  was  no  longer  her  rival ;  he 
would  have  given  thousands,  that  he  only  had  never 
deceived  her  ;  but  every  day  made  it  more  difficult 
now  to  confess  the  truth.  His  letters  never  came  t< 
the  house  ;  he  dreaded  going  into  public  lest  he  should 
be  recognised  in  some  way ;  he  was  become  the  slave 
of  perpetual  apprehension.  He  bought  a  horse  and 
rode  violently ;  it  was  the  only  thing  that  seemed  to 
remove  him  from  himself;  yet  he  never  returned 
home  without  fearing  that  the  frightful  secret  was 
out.  All  this  preyed  upon  his  health ;  he  looked  ill 
and  haggard ;  his  wife  grew  anxious  about  him  ;  he 
assumed  spirits  which  he  did  not  feel,  and  was  all  the 
time  miserable.  To  add  to  his  anxiety,  Reynolds 
still  pursued  him  with  letters,  and  at  length  came  in 
person.  He  came  with  the  most  resolute  purpose  of 
dragging  from  Williams  the  secret  of  his  father's 
residence.  He  came  with  tidings  for  which  Williams 


1GO  ANOTHER   OtD    ACQUAINTANCE. 

was  not  prepared — the  happiness  of  his  life  depended 
upon  his  marriage  with  Williams's  sister — he  would 
not  speak  of  her  in  any  other  character  than  as  his 
sister ;  he  defied  him,  before  Heaven,  to  deny  that 
she  was  so,  or  that  her  father  was  other  than  his.  He 
was  so  firm,  so  much  in  earnest,  that  Williams 
quailed  before  him.  Life  and  death,  he  said,  was  in 
his  errand,  and  he  would  not  be  trifled  with.  He 
only  wanted  to  be  enabled  to  find  them,  and  then 
Williams  might  cast  them  off  for  ever — might  dis- 
own them — might  lie  before  God  and  man  ;  they 
should  from  that  day  want  neither  friend  nor  support, 
for  he  himself  would  maintain  them.  Williams  told 
him  honestly  that  which  he  knew  ;  he  had  established 
them  as  he  hoped  permanently  in  Birmingham,  and 
had  secured  to  them  a  hundred  a  year  by  quarterly 
payments.  They  had  left  Birmingham,  however,  and 
gone  to  Bath,  and  after  that  he  had  incidentally 
learned  they  were  in  London,  where  the  father  had 
opened  some  kind  of  tavern  at  the  West  End — a  mad, 
foolish  scheme,  said  William?,  and  that  was  honestly 
all  he  knew.  Reynolds,  on  his  part,  knew  as  much, 
which  he  related  :  he  had  traced  them  from  town  to 
town,  and  at  length  to  London,  where,  as  was  stated. 
the  father  had  been  unwise  enough  to  enter  into  some 
sort  of  scheme,  but  not  in  a  tavern  or  gaming-house, 
in  what  was  designed  for  a  small  respectable  coffee  - 
house  and  news-room.  He  had  had  a  stroke,  however, 
which  incapacitated  him  from  business.  The  whole 
place  was  broken  up — all  was  complete  ruin — and 
after  that,  he  and  his  daughter  seemed  lost  amid  the 
vastnessof  sorrow  and  disappointed  hopes  in  London. 
Reynolds  was  a  man,  physically  and  morally,  with 


ANOTHER    OLD    ACQUAINTANCE.  1(T| 

nerves  fa  of  iron ;  he  was  not  to  be  daunted  by  diffi- 
culties, or  impeded  by  obstacles  of  one  kind  or  another, 
and  now  he  stood  before  Williams  like  the  personifi- 
cation of  determined  will,  and  demanded  from  him 
where  was  his  sister  ? 

"  Would  to  Heaven  I  could  tell  you ! "  said 
Williams,  with  sincerity. 

Reynolds  did  not  believe  him.  Williams  tried  every 
means  in  his  power  to  convince  him  ;  offered  him  an 
unlimited  order  on  his  banker  for  their  use ;  but 
Reynolds  rejected  it.  "  It  is  a  mockery,"  said  he, 
indignantly,  "  to  offer  money  now,  when  you  have 
compelled  them  into  unknown  misery  and  perhaps 
ruin  ! " 

A  violent  quarrel  ensued,  and  Reynolds  returned 
to  England,  cursing  what  he  considered  the  heartless, 
selfish,  unnatural  pride  and  unkindness  of  his  partner, 
and  resolved  to  spend  his  life,  if  needful,  in  rescuing 
the  girl  he  loved  so  tenderly  from  the  misery  which 
seemed  to  encompass  her. 

It  was  impossible  to  keep  from  Mrs.  Williams's 
knowledge  the  fact  that  something  unpleasant  had 
caused  this  unexpected  journey  of  her  husband's 
partner  to  such  a  distance,  and  no  doubt  Williams 
would  have  found  the  concealment  of  the  truth  much 
more  difficult  than  he  did,  had  not  fortune  favoured 
him  ;  his  child  was  born,  and  the  mother  forgot  every 
unpleasant  thing  in  the  joy  of  her  first-born. 

Months  went  on. .  A  house  was  taken  for  them  at 
Florence  ;  the  day  fixed  for  their  journey  was  come. 
At  the  moment  of  departure  a  letter  from  England 
was  put  into  Williams's  hand  ;  it  was  in  a  woman's 
hand-writing,  and  had  been  sent  merely  directed  to 


162  ANOTHER   OLD    .ACQUAINTANCE. 

his  name  through  the  English  ambassador.  It  was 
from  his  sister,  and  was  a  most  touching  appeal  to 
his  humanity,  if  not  to  his  affection.  Her  father, 
ehe  saiil,  had  lost  the  use  of  one  side;  had  lost  his 
memory  completely,  and  in  part  his  speech — he  was  a 
pitiahlo  and  infirm  object.  She  was  making  the  most 
gigantic  efforts  in  her  power  for  their  support ;  hut 
she  had  no  friends.  She  knew  not  the  banking-house 
whence  her  father  drew  their  quarterly  payments,  and 
her  father's  efforts  to  recall  it  were  hopeless.  Her 
own  health  was  giving  way,  and  she  besought  him, 
without  loss  of  time,  in  the  name  of  that  Great 
Father  before  whom  they  must  all  one  day  answer 
for  their  deeds,  to  inform  her  of  the  name  of  his 
banker,  and  thus  rescue  them  from  the  horrible 
misery  which  already  stared  them  in  the  face.  His 
heart  was  wrung  as  he  hastily  perused  it.  His  wife 
came  in  at  that  moment ;  the  carriage  was  at  the 
door ;  the  servants  and  the  courier  came  bustling 
about ;  his  wife  said  all  was  ready,  and  she  was 
impatient  to  be  off;  he  crumpled  the  letter  hastily  in 
his  hand,  gave  his  arm  to  his  wife,  and  placed  her  in 
the  carriage  ;  the  nurse  and  the  child  followed  quickly, 
all  was  bustle  and  confusion  ;  he  took  his  seat;  there 
were  yet  cloaks,  and  shawls,  and  travelling  baskets, 
and  little  bags,  and  endless  things  to  be  looked  after, 
for  Mrs.  Williams  was  one  of  those  provident  persona 
who  cared  for  every  want  beforehand.  Scarcely  were 
they  off,  when  Williams  recalled  the  letter ;  it  was 
not  in  his  hand — it  had  not  been  in  his  hand  for  some 
time — where  had  he  put  it  1  He  was  alarmed ;  he 
quietly  felt  his  own  pockets,  looked  behind  his  wife, 
looked  behind  the  nurse,  but  it  was  not  to  be  seen. 


ANOTHER  OLD  ACQUAINTANCE.        163 

He  dared  not  ask  about  it,  but  sat  troubled  and 
uneasy  in  the  corner  of  his  carriage,  trying  to  recal 
to  his  recollection  what  had  occurred  but  a  few 
moments  before.  That  he  had  it  crumpled  up  in  hia 
hand  as  he  assisted  his  wife  into  the  carriage  he  could 
recollect ;  but  his  mind  was  so  agitated  and  bewildered 
at  the  moment  that  he  knew  not  what  he  did ;  he 
could  remember  nothing  more  about  it  till  he  had 
missed  it ;  he  feared  that  he  had  dropped  it  in  getting 
into  the  carriage,  and  in  that  case  it  would  be  found 
and  might  be  made  public — might  be  sent  after  him 
-  -nay,  he  could  not  tell  what  might  be  the  c<  nse- 
quence ;  but  that  which  seemed  even  worse  than 
this,  Avas  the  chance  of  his  never  finding  it,  for  thus 
he  had  not  the  slightest  idea  of  what  the  address 
was,  to  which  his  reply  should  be  sent.  It  was  a 
most  agonising  thought.  He  hoped,  however,  that  it 
might  still  be  in  the  carriage  among  its  various  con- 
tents. At  the  first  place  they  stopped  he  had  every- 
thing taken  out — but  no  letter  was  there  ! 

They  came  to  their  journey's  end  ;  took  possession 
of  their  new  house — a  beautiful  prince-like  villa  on 
the  banks  of  the  Arno ;  his  wife  was  happy  ;  the 
child  was  lovely,  and  throve  like  a  flower  in  May; 
she  was  the  fondest  of  mothers.  Could  she  but  have 
seen  her  husband  happy,  she  would  have  been  the 
happiest  of  wives.  As  at  Vienna  so  here,  he  spent 
most  of  his  time  on  horseback ;  he  was  as  little  as 
possible  at  home.  Had  his  wife's  mind  been  less  occu- 
pied by  the  child  than  it  was,  she  never  would  have 
rested  without  penetrating  the  secret  of  his  sadness. 
But  when  she  saw  him  at  home,  she  saw  him  with 
assumed  spirits,  and  she  had  no  idea  of  liis  hours  of 


164  MADEMOISELLE    ANGELA. 

secret,  untold  agony  of  mind ;  she  saw  that  there  was 
something  wrong,  and  with  all  the  power  of  her  love 
she  tried  to  set  it  right ;  she  carefully  kept  from  htm 
every  painful  subject,  met  him  ever  with  smiles,  and 
tried  all  in  her  power  to  make  him  happy. 

He  in  the  meantime  had  written  to  Vienna  about 
the  lost  letter ;  instituted  all  kind  of  search,  and 
offered  reward,  but  to  no  purpose.  The  letter  did 
not  appear,  and  the  thought  of  the  paralytic,  speech- 
less man,  and  the  young  girl  thrown  friendless  on  the 
heartless  world  of  London,  haunted  him  day  and 
night.  Oh,  how  bitterly  was  he  punished.  He  was 
willing  now  to  help  them — nay,  to  make  any  sacri- 
fice for  them,  and  he  had  lost  the  power  of  doing  so. 
He  thought  of  old  Mrs.  Bellamy's  words,  "  children, 
children,  never  let  pass  an  opportunity  of  doing  a 
kindness  to  those  you  ought  to  love,  or  the  time  may 
come  when  the  thought  of  not  having  done  so  will 
pursue  you  as  with  a  whip  of  scorpions  !  " 


CHAPTER  VI. 

MADEMOISELLE    ANGELA. 

THE  newspapers  announced  one  morning  that,  in 
consequence  of  the  severe  illness  of  the  grandmother 
of  Mademoiselle  Angela,  that  favourite  actress  would 
not  perform  that  evening  as  usual.  The  public,  who 
lost  a  night's  pleasure  in  consequence  of  the  old  lady's 
illness,  sincerely  wished  her  better — but  the  wish 
availed  nothing ;  the  old  lady  died. 

"  Mademoiselle  Angela  desires  to  have  some  one 


MADEMOISELLE    ANGELA.  165 

sent  to  her  to  alter  her  mourning,  to-day,"  said  Mr. 
Jones,  of  one  of  the  great  mourning  warehouses  in 
London,  to  his  head  man ;  "  see  that  some  one  is  sent 
to  her  immediately."  The  head  man  communicated 
the  order  to  the  principal  work- woman,  adding,  "  that 
she  had  better  send  one  of  the  cleverest  hands."  The 
principal  work-woman  glanced  into  the  large  room, 
where  there  sat  thirty  young  women  at  their  gloomy 
trade,  and  without  waiting  to  make  any  selection, 
called  out  that  "  Miss  Jervis  must  take  her  working 
materials  and  go  instantly  to  Mademoiselle  Angela 
and  make  such  alterations  in  her  mourning  as  she 
required."  It  was  an  every-day  occurrence,  and  the 
young  lady  to  whom  the  commission  was  given  having 
prepared  all  that  was  needful  to  take  with  her,  which 
were  contained  in  a  little  black  box,  found  a  cab  wait- 
ing for  her  at  the  shop-door,  and  drove  off  to  the 
handsome  house  of  the  renowned  actress. 

A  man-servant  conducted  her  up  -stairs,  and  there  a 
grave,  middle-aged  waiting-woman  received  her,  who 
led  her  into  Mademoiselle  Angela's  own  bed -room. 
The  chamber  was  the  handsomest  that  the  young 
work-woman  had  ever  seen,  and  she  was  rather 
excited,  for  she  knew  how  renowned  was  the  lady  to 
whom  it  belonged  ;  her  very  heart  beat  at  the  thought 
of  seeing  her.  The  rich  mourning  lay  on  the  bed, 
and  while  she  took  off  her  bonnet  and  cloak,  Made- 
moiselle Angela  entered. 

"  How  beautiful  she  is,  and  how  good  she  looks," 
thought  poor  Marianne. 

The  great  lady  smiled  kindly  at  the  young,  modeat 
dressmaker — she  too  was  struck  by  her  appearance  ; 
a  sentiment  of  great  kindness  filled  her  heart— 

10 


166  MADEMOISELLE    ANGELA. 

she  made  up  her  mind  instantly  as  to  what  she 
would  do. 

The  young  girl  sat  down  to  the  work  which  was 
pointed  out  to  her,  and  Mademoiselle  Angela,  order- 
ing a  book  to  be  brought  to  her,  and  dismissing  the 
woman,  with  the  desire  that  no  one  should  interrupt 
her  that  morning,  seated  herself  on  the  sofa,  and 
began  to  read.  The  room  was  so  still  that  the  quick 
movement  of  Marianne's  needle  and  the  turning  of 
the  pages  of  the  book  were  audible.  At  length 
Mademoiselle  Angela,  closing  the  book,  said,  "  Youra 
i*a  melancholy  occupation  ;  all  day  long,  the  whole 
year  through,  working  for  sorrow,  or  what  is  worse, 
the  mockery  of  sorrow.'' 

The  young  girl  sighed. 

"It  must  be,"  continued  the  actress,  "  a  weary 
trade  to  you." 

"•  I  am,"  said  Marianne,  "  so  thankful  to  be 
employed,  that  to  me  it  is  not  so.'' 

"  Have  you  then  known  distress?  "  asked  the  other, 
but  in  so  kind  a  tone  that  Marianne  continued — 

"  I  have  a  father  dependent  upon  me — we  have 
been  very  unfortunate,"  she  said,  hardly  keeping  back 
the  tears  ;  "  very  unfortunate  in  many  ways.  1  have 
feared  starvation  almost  lor  us  both,  I  have  feared — 
Oh,  I  cannot  tell  what  I  have  feared — London  is  an 
awful  place  for  any  one  who  is  friendless — for  a  young 
girl  especially." 

The  actress  laid  down  her  book,  and  taking  a  chair 
sat  down  by  the  table  where  the  girl  was  working. 

"  I  am  a  stranger  to  you,"  she  said,  very  kindly; 
"  you  know  nothing  of  me  ;  can  feel  no  reason  why 
you  bhould  make  a  confidant  of  me — yet  I  wish  you 
•would  do  so." 


MADEMOISELLE    ANGELA.  167 

The  girl  sighed  again,  and  wiped  away  the  tears 
which  this  kindness  had  called  forth.  "  I  have 
heard  a  great  deal  of  you,  Mademoiselle  Angela," 
she  said  ;  u  everybody  talks  of  you,  and  I  have  heard 
that  you  arc  very  good,  but  I  have  nothing  to  tell  you 
that  can  interest  you  much,  there  are  alas,  so  many 
unfortunate  people  in  London." 

"  The  unfortunate  are  always  interesting  to  me," 
said  the  actress,  with  that  air  of  simple,  emphatic 
truth  which  was  her  distinguishing  characteristic. 

Marianne  felt  its  influence,  and  replied, "  There  are 
circumstances  connected  with  my  family  which  are 
of  a  painful  and  altogether  private  nature — my 
father,  who  is  old  in  experience  and  sorrow,  rather 
than  iu  years,  and  who  is  now  helpless  as  a  child  in 
mind  and  body,  has  been  wholly  dependent  upon  me 
for  the  last  twelve  months.  He  was  extremely  fond 
of  me ;  he  expected  that  I  should  make  my  fortune 
by  marriage  ;  what  little  money  we  have  had  he  has 
risked  to  make  more  for  my  sake — and  all  has  been 
lost !  \Vc  have  now  been  in  London  a  year  and  a 
half,  and  in  that  time  I  have  tried  endless  means  of 
obtaining  our  livelihood.  I  have  been  well  educated, 
and  as  I  know  myself  as  well  qualified  for  teaching 
as  nine  out  of  ten  who  do  teach,  I  offered  myself  ad 
daily  governess,  as  teacher  in  a  school,  as  instructor 
in  various  ways,  but  there  always  were  for  such 
situations  twenty  or  more  applicants  besides  myself, 
all  of  whom  came  supported  by  friends  or  interest  of 
some  kind  or  other.  I  had  none.  I  tried  to  take 
pupils,  but  none  came.  I  made  fancy-work  of  all 
kinds,  and  taught  it,  but  by  this  I  lost  money.  I 
painted  miniatures — children,  dogs,  cats,  parrots,  any- 
thing— and  if  dogs,  cats,  and  parrots  had  alone  been 


168  MADEMOISELLE    ANGELA. 

my  subjects  and  sitters,  I  might  have  done ;  but  a 
young  lady,  at  least  a  poor  one,  cannot  in  London 
attempt  this  mode  of  gaining  her  living  without  being 
subjected  to  the  most  annoying  insults.  People,"  said 
she,  blushing  deeply,  "  thought  me  pretty,  and  in 
every  way,  in  every  situation,  this  was  against  me. 
Oh,"  said  the  poor  girl,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  "  how 
often  have  I  thought  it  would  have  been  a  blessing  if 
I  had  the  small-pox ! " 

"  And  have  you  no  friends  at  all  ?  "  asked  Made- 
moiselle Angela. 

"  Friends ! "  repeated  she,  blushing  deeply  and 
sighing ;  "  friends  !  yes,  perhaps  so.  We  ought  to 
receive  an  annuity,  which  would  make  us  inde- 
pendent, but  he  who  should  pay  it  is  abroad.  Oh,  it 
is  a  sad  thing,"  said  she,  bursting  into  tears. 

The  actress  was  deeply  interested,  "  And  why  does 
he  not  pay  it  ?  "  she  asked. 

"I  have  written  tojiim,"  replied  she,  "since  my 
father's  memory  has  failed  him,  and  have  told  him  all 
our  distress ;  but  he  takes  no  notice.5' 

"  But  have  you  not  other  friends  ?  "  she  asked, 
"  no  connections,  nobody  that  knows  your  family  ?  " 

Again  the  girl  blushed  :  "  Yes,"  she  said,  "  there 
are  two  ladies,  very  good  and  kind,  who  showed  me 
great  kindness,  who  knew  my  mother — but  circum- 
stances forbid  my  applying  to  them — yet  I  do  believe 
that  if  they  only  knew  what  I  have  suffered  they 
would  befriend  me." 

"  Do  they  live  in  London?"  asked  the  actress. 

"  No,"  she  returned,  "they  live  in  the  country,  in 
Staffordshire." 

"  Could  no  one  interfere  for  you — write  to  them 
for  you  ?  " 


MADEMOISELLE    ANGELA.  109 

Marianne  looked  up  from  her  work  for  a  iiiom<.'iit> 
and  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  lovely  face  of  the  actress 
and  said,  "  perhaps  they  might,  but —  " 

"  I  am  curious  about  you,"  interrupted  Made- 
moiselle Angela ;  "  I  have  been  in  Staffordshire — • 
perhaps  I  know  your  friends — where  do  they  live — 
tell  me  1"  she  said  in  a  manner  so  unlike  her  usual 
calmness,  that  Marianne  again  looked  in  her  face. 
*'  I  once  knew  some  parts  of  Staffordshire ;  tell  me 
•who  are  your  friends,  and  where  they  live." 

"  They  live  at  a  small  town  called  U  teeter,"  said 
Marianne  ;  "  their  name  is  Kendrick." 

The  actress  rose  instantly  from  her  seat,  and  walked 
across  the  room  —  she  seemed  agitated  —  put  her 
handkerchief  to  her  face,  and  then  sat  down  again. 

"  J  told  you,"  said  she,  hurriedly,  "  that  I  knew 
something  of  Staffordshire.  "  Utceter  I  know,  but 
not  your  friends.  No,"  said  she,  in  her  usual  calm 
and  simple  manner,  '•  your  fri^ids,  the  Kendricks,  J 
never  knew." 

Marianne  ventured  a  remark  which  made  her 
heart  tremble.  "  There  was  a  Mr.  Osborne  there," 
she  said,  "and  a  young  Mr.  Williams,  his  nephew — 
but  I  daresay  you  never  knew  them." 

"  Ah  ! "  said  the  actress,  with  an  emotion  which 
made  her  cheeks  as  pale  as  marble  ;  "  what  of  them 
— what  of  young  MY.  Williams?  Has  he  been  a 
false  lover  of  yours  ? " 

"  Oh,  no,  no  ?  "  said  Marianne,  looking  at  her  in 
amazement;  "but  oh,  Mademoiselle  Angela,  if  you 
know  anything  of  him — for  lie  is  a  rich  man  no\v — 
for  the  love  of  God,  do  tell  him  that  the  old  man- 
be  knows  who — is  almost  iu  want — wuuld  be  in  want 


170  MADEMOISELLE    ANGELA. 

but  for  me — and  I,  what  can  I  do  ?  with  all  my 
utmost  exertion  I  can  earn  but  fifteen  shillings  a 
week.  Oh,  Mademoiselle  Angela,"  said  she,  dropping 
on  her  knees  before  her,  "  if  you  know  him,  do  this 
for  the  sake  of  Christian  love ;  oh,  do  it !  for  if  you 
ask,  who  can  resist  you  ?  " 

"  Rise  ! "  said  the  actress,  deeply  affected  ;  "  rise, 
my  good  girl.  With  the  man  you  name  I  can  do 
nothing — but  remember  that  I  am  your  friend  ! " 

With  these  words  she  went  out,  leaving  poor 
Marianne  to  her  tears  and  her  astonishment. 

Two  days  after  this  a  letter  came  to  Miss  Kendrick, 
which  excited  the  greatest  astonishment  and  delight, 
and  well  might  it  do  so.  It  was  from  that  celebrated 
Mademoiselle  Angela,  whose  fame  had  spread  all  over 
England,  and  it  told,  as  the  incomparable  Angela  only 
could  tell  it,  the  story  of  her  acquaintance  with 
Marianne  Jervis.  Miss  Kendrick,  the  letter  said, 
would  know  how  they  could  best  befriend  her ;  for 
the  present,  however,  this  young  girl  was  her  inmate, 
and  her  father,  who  was  feeble  and  infirm  in  the  last 
degree,  was  about  to  be  removed  to  one  of  those 
blessed  institutions  —  the  Sanatorium  —  where  for 
invalids  of  the  middle-class  every  comfort  orf  home  is 
combined  with  the  most  skilful  medical  treatment. 

What  did  Miss  Kendvick  do  when  she  read  this 
letter  ?  First  of  all  she  had  a  good  fit  of  crying,  and 
then  she  put  on  her  bonnet  and  shawl  and  trotted  off 
to  her  nephew,  to  whom  she  knew  its  contents  would 
be  like  a  message  from  Heaven. 

The  next  day,  though  it  was  a  market-day.,  Rey- 
nolds set  off  for  London.  "  I  shall  bo  at  home  again 


MADEMOISELLE    ANGELA.  l7l 

with  all  my  faculties  to  attend  to  business  for  the 
future,"  said  he.  "  I  will  not  take  a  holiday  again 
on  market-day." 

"  Oh,  go,  go !  and  God  bless  you !  "  said  good 
Mr.  Isaacs,  twinkling  his  eyes. 

Reynolds  had  forgotten  that  he  had  never  actually 
declared  his  love  to  Marianne ;  he  fancied  that  she 
knew  it  as  well  as  he  did ;  and,  perhaps,  after  all,  she 
was  not  very  much  astonished  when  he  rushed  into 
the  room  and  clasped  her  in  his  arms.  What  a  joy- 
ful meeting  it  was!  There  was  nevertheless  a  great 
deal  which  Avas  both  painful  and  sad  to  be  talked 
over. 

Reynolds,  like  all  the  rest  of  the  world,  was  pre- 
pared to  see  an  almost  divine  creature  in  Mademoiselle 
Angela,  and  she  equalled  his  expectations. 

"•  I  do  not  know  how  it  is,"  said  Reynolds,  "  but 
she  reminds  me  of  a  young  actress  that  Williams 
knew  in  former  days." 

"  I  think  it  is  she,"  said  Marianne.  Of  their 
conjectures,  however,  they  wisely  said  not  a  word. 

Marianne  was  two  ir.onths  with  Mademoiselle 
Angela,  and  then  Reynolds,  having  put  his  house  in 
order  to  receive  a  wife,  they  were  married.  Made- 
moiselle Angela  gave  the  breakfast,  and  even  accom- 
panied the  bride  to  church.  It  made  quite  a  stir  in 
Utcetor,  that  Mr.  Reynolds  had  married  a  protegee  of 
the  celebrated  actress. 

t;  But,"  said  Miss  Kendricks  zealously  to  all  their 
friends,  "  she  is  no   actress  herself,  and  never  had 
anything  to  do  with  players.    There  can  only  be  on 
Mademoiselle  Angela  in  the  world." 

WitHin  three  months  after  the  marriage,  the  poor 


172  MADEMOISELLE    ANGELA. 

father  died.  Reynolds,  who  had  never  communicated 
his  own  and  his  sister's  marriage  to  Williams,  wrote 
to  him  now  with  the  news  of  his  father's  death ;  the 
letter,  however,  reached  Florence  exactly  two  daya 
after  the  Williams's  had  left  there  for  England — why 
we  shall  see. 

The  Williams's  had  now  been  twelve  months  in 
Florence.  He  continued  as  melancholy  as  ever ;  at 
times  he  spoke  of  returning  to  England  alone,  but 
of  that  his  wife  would  not  hear.  She  urged  him  to 
consult  physicians,  but  he,  who  knew  too  well  what 
was  his  malady,  would  take  no  physician's  advice. 
His  wife  now  began  to  suspect  some  concealed  grief 
or  other,  some  sorrow  of  which  he  spared  her  the 
knowledge  from  affection  and  tenderness.  "  Oh,  how 
you  mistake  me,  Edward,"  she  said,  "  if  you  think 
I  cannot  share  in  your  grief! "  Her  affection  pained 
him  deeply — he  believed  that  there  was  a  grief  which 
she  could  not  bear — the  grief  of  his  falsehood  and 
deceit.  He  avoided  his  wife  as  much  as  possible, 
and  spent  his  time  alone.  All  his  passion  for  Made- 
moiselle Angela  was  gone ;  his  wife  was  in  his  eyes  a 
superior  being,  and  he  coveted  only  her  love,  and 
could  he  have  felt  that  he  deserved  her  love,  he  would 
have  been  the  happiest  of  men ;  but  he  had  deceived 
her,  and  in  deceiving  her,  had  compelled  himself  to 
the  cruellest  neglect  of  his  father  and  sister.  These 
thoughts  never  left  him. 

One  day  his  wife  drove  out  with  the  nurse  and 
child ;  they  went  out  for  the  day,  and  according  to 
Mrs.  Williams's  custom,  took  with  them  provision* 
for  every  possible  want.  One  of  the  pockets  of  the 
carriage  was  stuffed  with  biscuits  for  the  child  ;  th« 


MADEMOISELLE    ANGELA.  173 

nurse  fed  him  from  them,  and  the  child  finding  how 
pood  they  were  was  never  satisfied  with  them  ;  when 
she  thought  that  he  had  had  enough,  she  took  the 
cakes  out  and  said,  "  Now  he  might  have  everything 
he  could  find  there."  Down  went  the  little  fat  hand, 
but  there  was  not  much  to  find,  and  still  the  little 
fellow  kept  groping  down,  in  the  hope  that  there 
might  yet  he  something;  at  last,  up  he  brought  a 
crumpled  piece  of  paper — a  closely  crumpled  letter, 
which  seemed  to  have  lain  there  a  long  time.  His 
mother  saw  it — a  letter  in  a  female  hand — it  txcited 
her  curiosity ;  she  took  it  and  read  it.  She  read  it, 
looked  hurriedly  at  the  address,  grew  pale,  and  care- 
fully folding  it  up  put  it  in  her  reticule.  She  called 
to  the  coachman,  and  hade  him  turn  back  ;  she  had 
altered  her  mind,  and  would  go  no  farther  that  day. 

The  boy  laughed  and  prattled  on  the  homeward 
drive,  but  his  mother  neither  heard  nor  saw  him. 
A  terrible  secret  had  been  revealed  to  her,  and  she 
could  think  of  nothing  but  that. 

On  her  return  home  she  shut  herself  in  her 
chamber ;  her  husband  was  out  on  one  of  his  hasty 
rides,  and  she  re-read  the  letter.  It  was  that  letter 
which  had  been  lost,  that  heart-breaking  letter  from 
Marianne  to  her  brother.  All  was  now  clear  to  his 
wife.  Her  husband  was  then  in  reality  the  son  of 
that  unfortunate  convict,  Edwards — he  did  not  bear 
his  proper  name — her  child  was  descended  from  such 
a  parentage.  That  might  be  gajling  to  a  proud  spirit, 
but  it  was  nothing  to  the  cruel  sense  that  she  had 
been  deceived,  wilfully  and  deliberately  deceived  by 
her  husband;  and  then  that  he  had  suffered  these 
unfortunate  relatives  to  suffer  want — to  die,  perhaps 


174  MADEMOISELLE    ANGELA. 

—perhaps  had  driven  them  to  crime  through  his 
falsehood. 

"  Edward,"  said  she  sternly  to  him,  on  his  return, 
"  why  have  you  dealt  treacherously  by  me  ?  " 

He  turned  deadly  pale,  and  sank  in  a  chair.  She 
spread  the  letter  before  him. 

"  Why  have  you  deceived  me  ?  "  she  asked.  "  Oh, 
Edward,  that  we  should  have  lived  thus  long  together 
and  you  not  have  the  candour  to  tell  me  the  truth  ! " 

He  raised  his  eyes  from  the  paper  to  her  face,  but 
said  not  a  word. 

"  You  have  done  very  unkindly  by  me,"  said  she, 
"  a'i.d  it  is  time  now  that  we  understood  one  another. 
This  is  no  light  thing,  Edward,  it  is  a  grave  sin  before 
both  God  and  man.  To-morrow  I  leave  you  ! " 

He  started  up,  and  clasping  both  his  hands  toge- 
ther pressed  them  tightly  on  his  forehead,  "  Leave 
me  ! "  repeated  he,  in  a  voice  of  heart-rending  agony. 

"  Yes,  Edward,"  she  said,  with  stern  calmness, 
•'  leave  you,  and  seek  out  these  unhappy  relatives 
whom  you  have  cast  off !  " 

"  Angel  of  God ! "  exclaimed  he,  falling  at  her 
feet ;  "  oh,  that  you  could  only  look  into  my  heart 
—•-could  have  looked  into  it  long  ago — could  have 
known  only  the  anguish  I  have  endured — the  punish- 
ment which  I  have  suffered." 

"But,"  said  she,  " you  have  let  your  father  and 
sister  want — your  own  flesh  and  blood — and  you, 
yourself,  have  lived  in  ease  and  plenty !  God 
Almighty  grant  that  the  sorrow  you  have  brought 
upon  your  own  parent  may  not  be  visited  upon 
you  !  " 

She  sank  upon  her  knees  beside  her  husband,  and 


MADEMOISELLE    ANGELA.  I7t 

bowing  down  her  face,  prayed  earnestly,  though 
without  words. 

They  hoth  rose  from  their  knees.  His  wife  laid 
her  hand  in  his,  and  looking  in  his  face  with  an 
expression  of  the  most  undying  love,  said,  in  a  low 
voice,  "  In  joy  and  in  sorrow,  in  good  and  in  evil,  I 
am  ever  thine !  Let  us  go  together,  and  retrieve  the 
wrong  that  has  been  done — and  so  may  the  Almighty 
bless  us ! " 

He  bowed  his  face  to  her  hand,  and  wetted  it  with 
tears. 


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